


「Sunday Umbrella」

by yuren



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Love Triangles, Mild Language, Rating May Change, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuren/pseuds/yuren
Summary: He is brilliant like the midnight sun.And you begin to understand why he’s Japan’s top model.This is different from Shibuya’s billboard, different from your memories of the campaign that made you hesitate in your tracks one sunny day. You stood in the middle of the crossing, ensnared by the fresh smile of that year’s Armani model. You didn’t know his name, only his smile, and that was enough.But this, it’s more than that. If that campaign was the summer sun, then this right here is the sun that swallows the night.At this moment, he’s very very bright.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Reader, Miya Atsumu/Reader
Comments: 83
Kudos: 113





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **a/n:** this is a fulfilment of a nine-year long dream and a thank you letter to my favourite fic, moonlit.nocturne’s diamonds in wine.

It’s a bleak day. 

It had been sunny this morning, but then the day went on, the clouds moved in and the sun got pushed to the back of your mind. Now, in the late afternoon, you’ve almost forgotten the warmth from the morning sun. Grey skies and all, it’s monotonous, a smile plastered on as you thank the customer for their patronage. You welcome the next in line, the well-practiced courtesies leaving your mouth. 

“Welcome to Favilla Café! What can I get you?”

It’s not that you dislike this job. The café’s nice, decorated with comfort in mind, and popular with the campus crowd. It’s largely student-run, your coworkers are agreeable, and your pay is decent. Not much more you can ask for from a campus café you’ve worked at for the past few years. 

You hand the customer the receipt, thanking him as he proceeds to the waiting area.

Beyond the large glass windows, the sun is struggling to peek out from behind the wispy clouds. It looks like it’s going to rain. 

You look down at the cash register. 

4:59:39pm. 

Twenty-one seconds. 

Twenty-one isn’t a bad age. You’re mostly done with college, thesis pending. This higher education thing hasn’t been terrible. You’ve made some decent friends. You got by. 

Yeah, you got by. 

You’re still in the midst of job hunting for post-graduation, but with the way that this economy is looking, the future looks bleak. 

This is bleak. 

Signing out, you head to the employee’s only area, changing out of your shift uniform. 

“Y/n darling?” 

“Just a second!” 

Swinging shut your locker door, you leave with your bags. 

“Yukie, what’s up?” You raise an eyebrow at your manager slash roommate slash best friend. At least one of you have a promising nutrition internship lined up post-grad. 

“A customer is asking for you.” She points to the far corner of the cafe with a few obscure booths. 

You look at her, and she shrugs. 

“He doesn’t seem dangerous,” she supplies with a grin. “A little intimidating, perhaps too good looking, but most likely not dangerous. Probably not a banker.”

“Uh, thanks?” you frown, holding the door for her as she slips in. “You probably shouldn’t say that about your potential clients, Yukie darling.”

You can hear her laugh from behind the closing door. 

Campus is safe. There are demanding people like the tenured professor that threw a tantrum earlier. Supposedly, the entirety of academia is not only aware but also absolutely obsessed with his sugar-free diet. You merely told him that he was welcomed to inform the barista the next time he purchases the chocolate caramel macchiato. When he stomped away in a shade of cherry red, you weren’t sure if you’re going to be banned from the entirety of academia after today but at least campus is safe.

You stand a safe distance away from the last booth. A grey-haired man in casual business attire sits with an espresso, a mostly-eaten black sesame croissant, and a slight frown. You took his order right before the professor’s. 

He doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet, tapping away at his phone. 

Walking over, you cough to get his attention.

“Hello,” you start politely, “you asked for me? Did I perhaps get your order wrong?”

You know you didn’t, but this isn’t about you. 

The man looks up slowly, thin eyebrows slightly raised. He looks only a couple of years older than you but he’s got that “real world experience” in his eyes. His back is straight, and his eyes are warm. You have to give Yukie credit. 

A little intimidating, too good looking, and most likely not dangerous. 

Probably not a banker. 

“Yes, hello.” The man’s frown slides into a polite smile, not too wide, not too stingy. But you’re even more wary. “Thank you for coming over. Not to worry, there’s nothing wrong with my order.”

 _Kansaiben_ , you recognise. A little flat but not hostile. 

You look at him curiously. “Then how may I help you?”

“My name’s Kita Shinsuke. I manage a modelling agency here in Tokyo.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket, and takes out a business card from a polished silver cardholder. 

_Kita Shinsuke. President. Inarizaki Group._

You hold the card in your hands, an uncertain smile on your face as you try to maintain your polity. 

“A modelling agency?” you ask courteously. “I’m not really interested in modelling, sorry.”

Kita laughs, not too loudly, not too hollowly. 

“While you’re very lovely, we’re not looking for female models at the moment.” He looks at you with a crinkle in his eyes, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Would you like to sit down? I’ve got a different job proposal for you.”

A quick glance at the clock on the wall. 5:23pm. 

It’s not like you have plans, and campus is still safe. Hell, Tokyo is pretty safe, right?

You look at him warily. 

A little intimidating, too good looking, and most likely not dangerous. 

Definitely not a banker.

Dropping your bags onto the end of the booth seat, you sit down across from him, careful to keep your back straight and your legs a measure from his.

“Miss L/n,” he starts pleasantly, “do you currently have a summer job?”

“Did my fr— uh, my manager tell you my name?” you ask cautiously, thinking of all the protocol behind that. 

Kita chuckles lightly. “It’s on your name tag.”

“Oh,” you clear your throat, grabbing your water bottle from your bag. “No, I don’t have a summer job. I’m actually looking for post-graduate ones actually.”

“Full-time job, huh?” Kita looks at you thoughtfully, smiling politely all the while. “That’s even better actually. What’s your major?”

“English.”

“That’ll be useful.”

You try to gauge any sliver of information from his face, but he maintains a frustratingly natural pleasantness from the corners of his eyes to the slight upturn of his lips. 

“I’m sorry, but can I know what kind of position this is for?” you blurt out. “I’m not really invested in fashion and stuff, so I’m not too sure what a modelling agency’s president would want me for.” 

“Model management,” Kita replies simply. “I saw how you handled the rude tenure from earlier, and I think you’ll be a good fit for a vacancy I currently have.”

“Managing your models?”

“Managing a model.”

“One.”

“Yes,” he smiles pleasantly. “One worth one hundred.”

“Huh.” You raise an eyebrow. One person to manage a single model. “They’re that good?”

“He,” he grins, picking up the espresso, “and yes, you could say that.”

You shift a bit in your seat. This man’s demeanour, while very pleasant, was too pleasant. You’ve never seen someone sip espresso so...pleasantly. 

“Uh, in case — just in case — I’m interested, do I have to go through an interview or something?”

“Of course, but I think you’d be a good fit anyways,” he smiles as he puts down the espresso cup. “We could schedule an interview if you’d like to discuss terms and all, which I’m sure you’re curious about.”

You have to admire the man, you’ve decided. He’s straightforward, and you have a feeling he wouldn’t mind if you were too.

“If you don’t mind me asking some questions in case, you know, in case I consider if I’m interested or not.” You smooth your palms on your jeans as he gives you a nod. “I guess the most important thing is what the job entails and what’s the compensation.”

“Good, glad you’re not beating around the bush.” This is the widest smile you’ve seen so far. “You be our model’s PA and manager, and you get 350,000 _yen_ a month.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“A fully furnished apartment will be provided. In Roppongi, for ease of access to the model and offices.”

Your jaw drops.

“And naturally, all the expenses for transportation and any work-related trips will be covered.”

You sure hope that the whimper that just came out of your mouth wasn’t real.

Kita chuckles lightly. “It’s all very attractive but don’t make the decision now.” He finishes the last bite of his croissant. “Think carefully, Miss L/n. It’s a challenging job. But I have faith in your abilities.” 

You sat up straighter than you’ve ever sat, pushing your shoulders back as you clear your throat. “Of course,” you say in a steady voice, looking him straight in the eyes. “If I’m going to take all those benefits from you, I’ll have to actually do work.”

“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” He looks at the notification on his phone. “Perfect timing. Our top model is calling.”

He gives you a wink, and you look at him curiously, trying hard not to stare at your potential, possible, maybe future boss for a millisecond too long.

“I’ve got to go for now.” He swiftly and surely declines the call as he stands up to leave. 

You stand up with him.

“Miss L/n, you have my card. I look forward to hearing from you in five days’ time.”

He gives you a little bow that you return. As you watch him leave the cafe, you sigh, dropping back onto the booth seat with a dazed look on your face. 

You never thought that the sun would rise again on this cloudy day. 

* * *

By night, it’s storming. Rain pelts on the glass panes of your small apartment. The room is cozy enough that the small portable heater is sufficient, but you and Yukie stay bundled up under your blankets, sitting on your beds as you pass a bag of limited edition chips between the two of you before you decide on dinner.

“Yukie, I’m gonna do it.”

“But they’re _models_.”

“What’s wrong with models?” You raise an eyebrow, patting your blankets for your bottle of hot green tea. You thought that she’d be fine as long as they aren’t bankers.

Yukie reaches behind her and tosses you your bottle. You narrow your eyes at the few sips left. 

“Is that even a question?” she grins, shrugging as she then hands you her bottle of milk tea. “Don’t you remember the one model that graduated a few years ago from Tōdai, what’s his name? I don’t remember. But yeah, they’re not good news.”

Uncapping the milk tea, you roll your eyes.

“Yukie, that’s my cousin’s best friend you’re talking about.”

“Your cousin’s fine, great, even.” Yukie pauses to eat another chip. “But the tall, posh stuck-up that he’s always with? No thanks.”

You both jump a little at the sudden roll of thunder that seems to rattle the whole room.

“Okay, to each their own,” you frown. “But what about the pay?”

At this, Yukie sets down the bag and turns to face you fully. She pulls her blanket around her shoulders tightly, putting all her focus on the topic at hand.

“The pay?” she starts, eyes widening. “And the apartment? And the Roppongi postal code? And, and, and — “

“Free trips.”

“Yes! And just think about all the free food you’ll get. Just think about it, darling!” Her eyes are glazing over at this point, no doubt thinking about all the hor d’œuvres and dessert bars your cousin loves to taunt her with. “So all in all, you shouldn't consider it.”

“What?” You glare at her. “You literally said yes to everything like thirty seconds ago.”

“Yeah,” Yukie sighs, completely immune to glares — yours or anyone else’s. “But it’s too good to be true.”

You chuck her bottle back at her.

“You can just say that it’s an amazing opportunity, you know?”

“It _is_ amazing, but I’m worried about you.”

You both pause, letting her frame the right words.

Outside, the lighting strikes again. There’ll be another clap of thunder soon. It’s a Tokyo storm alright.

“That world is murky waters, darling,” she says finally, looking at you with a soft, downturned grin that almost borderlines sympathy.

The words settle, and you let out a long sigh, laying down under the covers. “Yeah, I know. But I can try it out. If I don’t like it, I’ll quit.”

Yukie doesn’t look convinced.

“Have you talked to your cousin?”

“No.” You play with the ears of your bunny plushie. “He’s going to tell me not to do it.”

“Yeah, he would,” she chuckles quietly. “Baby cousin’s too precious to let into his dark, stormy world.”

“I’m only a few months younger than him,” you pout, patting the bunny on its big round head. Yukie throws the blankets off as she hops off the bed. “But yeah, I have a week to think about this.”

Nodding to your bunny, you give your best friend what you hope is a reassuring smile.

“Think carefully,” Yukie says gently, giving you a pat on the head as she slips on her heavy cardigan. “I’m going downstairs to grab food. Do you want anything?”

“Lawson?”

She nods.

“Two _onigiri_ and a strawberry cake.”

“The usual ones?”

Your bunny nods.

“ _Karaage_ to share?”

It nods again.

You smile at her wide grin.

“Make sure you walk close to the wall so you don’t get wet.”

Yukie shoots you a thumbs up as she shuffles to the foyer, leaving a little song in her wake.

The door shuts, and you flop back onto the bed.

The rain falls a little heavier but Yukie will be fine. With how convenient it is, Lawson might as well be inside your building.

The storm has nothing on her love for food.

You look at Bun and fold its ears up and down to the cascading drums outside, your movements dancing along to its rhythmic beat.

One week to decide whether or not to walk into the storm.

You'll think it through.


	2. Two

Four days and three migraines later, you’re sitting with your back straight in the Inarizaki Group’s president’s empty office, wondering what in the world you’re doing. You had entered this building eighteen minutes before the agreed upon time, hands sweaty and mind in a clear haze after arranging for this meeting only last night. 

Beyond the sky-high windows, you can hear the bustle of the midday traffic outside. This is prime real estate, green-lined trees and ant-sized tailored suits under clear blue skies. Inside, everything is spotlessly clean, not even the sun-filtered specks of dust in sight. Leather couches that invite discomfort, glass tables that you can cut a mindless finger on, you’re sure this office is for intimidation purposes only. 

You sit on a sculpted chair, back very straight, feeling somewhat disconcerted with an expensive looking vase that vaguely resembles a rather deformed horse next to you. 

They aren’t bankers, but this is a lot of money. 

The doors open from behind you. You immediately stand.

“I gave you a week,” Kita states clearly, walking in quickly, dismissing your bow. The double doors shut softly, and he puts a few important-looking folders onto the desk. 

Shooting you a quick smile, he gestures for you to sit down again, and slides his phone over to the wireless charging spot. 

“Yeah,” you smile back politely, “but I made my decision early, and you answered a lot of my questions over text.”

“You sure you’ve thought this through?” He sets his elbows onto the glass table, hands clasped together.

Kita focuses on you, face blank save for the slight twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you reply simply. “It’s an attractive compensation package, it’s an interesting challenge, and I’m pretty confident I can do this.”

“Great. That’s all I need to hear,” Kita smiles widely. “I’ll have them bring up the contract, and get someone to show you around today. Work starts tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” 

“Is that a problem? You said you’re okay with starting this week yesterday.”

“Uh.” You smooth your palms on your culottes. Last night, Yukie reminded you to be pleasantly assertive — _the art of negotiation, darling._ “Tomorrow’s my last official day at the café, and Yukie’s planning a going-away party for me.”

With a slow nod, Kita looks at you before chuckling lightly. Grabbing his phone, he fiddles around for a few seconds, looking in concentration. 

“I suppose he doesn’t need you till the evening,” he grins, setting the phone back on the charger. “Can you be at Ginza by seven? It’ll be a good place for first introductions.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Great. This is good.” Kita waves away your grateful smile. “Take your time. You can move in gradually. The apartment’s all ready.”

Pressing on the intercom by his desk, he rings up a line. 

“Aran, could you bring up the contract? Yes, it’s for his manager. No, the other one. Yeah, I think she’s a keeper.”

The line goes dead, and he sits back against his leather seat, the only furniture of relative comfort in this room. 

“Aran,” Kita starts, “he’s my right hand and also managed your model before you came along. He’s really good at what he does.”

“Was there someone before me?” you ask, curious as to how their top model had been without a dedicated manager for so long. 

The smile he gives you is socially acceptable. “There were a few but it wasn’t a good match.”

At his deliberate phrasing, you were about to press further but a sharp knock sounded.

“Come in,” Kita calls, completely unfazed by your withheld questions and the sudden interruption. 

In comes a tall, dark, handsome man. If Kita is warmly pleasant, then this man is pleasantly warm. He walks purposefully, long legs striding to the desk. You can feel the sheer friendliness that he exudes as he gives Kita a nod, and you a curious glance. 

“Miss L/n, Ojiro Aran, my PA.” Kita gestures to the two of you. “Aran, Miss L/n Y/n, your new saviour.”

Aran laughs without inhibitions.

“Oh, thank god. We all know I need it.” He gives you a wink, holding out a large hand. “I’ll be in your care, Miss L/n.”

“Likewise, Ojiro-san.” You grip his hand — firmly, as Yukie had reminded you this morning — and smile back. 

“Nah,” he grins at your handshake, “Aran’s fine.”

“Then you can also call me Y/n.”

After going through the paperwork — and you do read through every clause much to Kita’s amused approval — you put down the Montblanc pen with a sigh. 

“This should be everything,” Aran says, moving back to Kita’s side as he puts all the documents back into the manila folder. 

“Great.” Putting his phone down, Kita stands up. You quickly follow suit. “This settles everything then.”

Kita sticks his hand out. 

It’s a handshake instead of a bow.

After a beat, you grasp his hand.

And quickly loosened your hold at his sharp glance. You had gripped too tightly. 

On the side, Aran chuckles lowly. 

“Welcome to the team, Miss L/n Y/n,” Kita smiles at you simply. “Work hard.”

“Of course, Kita-san,” you smile back with a newly learned formality of control. Not too bright, not too cool either. Just enough. 

Kita’s smile widens at your expression, and you know that you’ve somehow passed the first test you didn’t even know was being conducted.

He releases your hand after a moment, and sitting back down, he flips open one of the files. 

“Aran’ll show you around,” he says giving the two of you a nod. “If you have any questions, just ask him.” 

Giving his boss a thumbs up, Aran gathers up the contract and walks over to the door. With another small bow to Kita, you two leave the office. 

Once the doors close, Aran lets out a sigh, dropping the documents onto his desk right outside the President’s office. 

“So, Y/n,” he grins brightly, “I’ll show you around your office and this place. Some of the staff are here, but your charge has the day off so you’ll have to meet him tomorrow.”

“I have my own office?” you gape, thankful that he’s walking rather slowly. You haven’t worn these patent leather kitten heels in a while and his legs aren’t really helping your digitigrade dilemma. 

“It’s your model’s but—” he stops to let the cleaning lady pass by comfortably — “Yamamoto-san, how’s your day? Good, good,” he greets her warmly — before turning back to you, “he never uses it even though he shamelessly picked the second biggest one when we moved offices.”

You reach a door on the corner, and Aran produces two keys, handing one to you.

“Why doesn’t he use it?”

Unlocking the door, he pushes it open, holding it for you to go in. The smell of dust itches your nose and you sneeze, murmuring a quick excuse me as Aran chuckles. 

“Yamamoto-san must’ve forgotten about this office again.” He bypasses the simple birch table to open the windows behind it. “He doesn’t like coming to the offices. The last company-wide meeting, I had to drag him here. Kinda a wild fox, your guy.”

“Uh, I see,” you laugh politely as you look around the cream coloured room, stopping at the windows that overlook a quiet, tree-lined street. “So, uh, is he difficult?”

Aran pauses before laughing wholeheartedly. You stand there, worried that you might’ve already said something to offend him or the company. 

“I knew I said too much. Kita warned me in case we scare you off.” He shakes his head in amusement at your wary expression, leaning against one of the guest chairs’ armrest. 

Soft leather and creamy tones, they look a lot more comfortable than the ones in Kita’s office. 

“Uh, should I be scared off?” you frown, peering at his expression closely.

“Nah, not really,” he grins cheekily. “He’s not a bad kid. Has his own personality but his heart’s in the right place.”

He looks like he’s about to say something more but stops, catching himself once again. But the smile on his face remains annoyingly professional and friendly. You’re not supposed to feel annoyed, but you do. 

With such a strangely loaded comment and his suddenly careful speech, you can only reply with a noncommittal, “Ah, I see.”

He chuckles again, shrugging away the tension, and pushes up from the sofa to join you by the windows. All the way down in the streets, you can just make out the figures of two women in sunhats leisurely walking past, one of them pushing a baby stroller. 

“I’m counting on you to look after him, Y/n,” Aran says smoothly and easily. It sounds casual, that’s for sure. The intonation is neither high nor low. It’s not inflected but it’s not flat either. A smooth, sturdy _kansaiben_. 

But you had to fight the shiver that hits the base of your spine like a deliberate homerun. 

Below, the woman free of the stroller stops to look at her phone. After a moment, the other one peeks over, and all of the sudden, the two are in what appears to be a tearful embrace, rocking each other in a rare uninhibited display of joy.

Turning to Aran, you bow a little, politeness and what you hope is matched professionalism in your tone. “I’ll work hard.”

When you look back to the women on the streets, they’ve already gone back to walking side by side, their joy once again sheltered by the polity of conventional mannerisms. Back up the thirty-something floors of sheltered glass and cream-coloured couches, the small shake of head beside you also goes by unnoticed. 

* * *

“So, when are you two officially breaking up?”

“Oh Kaori,” Yukie sighs dramatically, her perpetually sleepy voice in a drawl as she complains to the very amused med student across from her. “In two days, she’ll be leaving me for a shit ton of money, a fancy apartment in the middle of Roppongi, and a hotshot model.”

Yukie locks you in her arms as you bring her her fourth slice of slice of cake and third cookie for the afternoon.

It’s a rather sunny day for a going-away party, but you suppose that leaving this part-time job after three years is not such a bad thing. Yukie’s currently on break — she always seems to be — and you’re hanging out in the small staff room with some coffee, tea, and sparkling water that she insists tastes good. There are some small cakes and pastries as well (the ones that didn’t make the cut for monetary gains), and staff members and campus friends are dropping by a few at a time. If you’re being honest, it’s not really a party than an excuse to get together one last time before you spiral off into the unknown waters of post-graduation work. You’ve got to hand it to Yukie though for being able to organize such a smoothly run thing in one day’s time. 

That’s probably how she secured her post-grad job in a more traditional way.

And now you suppose she has free agency to dramatically lament on your move into a not so conventionally begotten job.

“You’ll miss me.” You roll your eyes as she tightens her hold on you, squishing you into her well-endowed chest. 

“She won’t,” Kaori grins, her pale brown ponytail swaying from side to side, “since I’m moving in.” 

“Kaori,” you whine, pouting at them as they share a laugh at your expense.

That’s all they’ve been doing this afternoon. You might be a professional tenure handler behind the bar, but with these two, you are but a june bug with a suddenly useful degree. 

As the clock strikes five-thirty, Kaori excuses herself to prepare dinner, not before making you promise to drop by your old room sometime and catch her up on all the job gossip over medical journals and midnight caffeine. Gradually, as classes end, the campus crowd starts to filter in in droves for double-shot espressos and afternoon slump sugar rushes. Any non-expendable staff rush out to deal with the pile of orders. Apparently, with how Yukie is still sitting with you in the staff room, polishing off the last of the unusable cake scraps, the café manager is quite expendable. 

“You gonna be alright by yourself?”

She reaches a hand out to clasp over yours. 

“I think so,” you grin, your other hand covering hers over yours. “I’ll miss you though.”

“Me too,” she sighs as the last hand stacks onto the pile. “Nightcaps won’t be the same.”

“You mean our cake and chip nights?” Laughing, you wiggle your bottom hand to jenga it onto the top. “Yeah, I’ll miss those too.”

“You better tell me all about these hot models and the gossip,” she teases softly while focusing on the silly game that you’ve got going. 

“I thought you didn’t care for them?”

“They’re good to look at and think about sometimes. Plus, any gossip is good gossip.”

“Yeah, yeah, just admit you’re not above us commoners, Yukie darling.”

She finally looks up at you, a small smile on her lips as she pulls both hands out from under yours and envelopes yours in her own.

“Stay grounded, Y/n darling.”


	3. Three

Ginza’s night strikes a stark contrast to the potted succulents of the campus café. Gilded department stores, business suits of tailored prestige, giant billboards marketing a lifestyle and people that had existed only on the fringes of your mind. You’re now shooting up the side of a landmark building in a glass elevator, straight up to this unknown sky of glitz, glamour, and gold.

You adjust your blouse through the elevator’s polished doors. Blouse and tapered trousers, that’s what you and Yukie decided on last night. It’s nothing fancy. This is your job. You’re going to do it well.

But that doesn’t stop you from sending a quick text to Yukie — “ _wish me luck” —_ before stepping out into the Tokyo’s chilly winds.

The moon is high, and it’s pandemonium in this halfway sky. In the haze of the frosty air, you hear shouts, yells, and orders being chucked around. People duck and skirt around the reflectors swinging about and the monolights swivelling to find the perfect angles. In the far corner of the rooftop garden, there’s a bustling of activity amongst the racks of clothing and make up booths. 

You wonder if he’s here yet.

“Can I help you?”

Before you can look for your model, you’re stopped by a tall, suited man that looks like he can obliterate you with a single blink of his eyes — not that you can see them with the sunglasses he’s wearing but that’s the gist of it.

“Oh, um,” you fumble, reaching into your shoulder bag for your work lanyard stamped with the black and white Inarizaki logo.

“Miss L/n Y/n?” he asks firmly, jaw moving with the piece of gum he’s been chewing.

You nod.

With barely a movement in his features, he gives you the go ahead and points you to the racks of clothing. “Over there.”

“Thank y—”

There’s a crash...

“Fuckin’ hell! I told you to not change my people!”

...followed by a chain reaction of colourful swearing around you.

The security guard next to you sighs.

“Here we go again.” His expression finally morphs into a small, sympathetic grimace directed at you. “He’s been in a bad mood the whole night. Good luck, newbie.”

Looking at your well worn watch, you frown. _It’s only 6:55pm. Work hasn’t even started yet._

But you give the man a small nod of thanks and quickly walk over.

 _So he’s moody_ , you think. It’s nothing new to you. The café’s customers are constantly like that, especially around exam period, and you suppose that models can be like that too, probably without predictable schedules either. Maybe your charge is one of the pissy ones Yukie talked about. Aran did say he has a personality.

That’s okay. You can do this.

Stuffing your badge back into your bag, you make your way around the racks of clothing.

There’s a brightly lit dressing area with a few chairs and makeup stations. Several people are standing sparsely in the enclosure, unmoving. There’s only one person sitting down, their back facing you. The various powders of one or two makeup palettes are shattered and scattered on the grassy floor, and you see a woman standing not far from them, fist clenched, face absolutely red.

“I said I only want Suna, didn’t I?”

It’s a silently commanding voice — _kansaiben_ again, you notice. It’s barely louder than a whisper but the anger in there is as clear as day.

“Instead, you send this woman,” he continues, volume simultaneously getting lower and louder, “who’s done nothing but fuckin’ giggle in my ear the whole goddamn time.”

“Miya-san, Tachibana-san here is a professional—”

A balding man takes a tentative step towards the occupied chair. You can’t make out the reflection in the mirror, but from behind, the telltale hair is unmissable, a halo of sunshine and Ginza gold against winter’s night.

Miya Atsumu holds up an iron-fisted hand, and the balding man immediately freezes in his spot.

A verbal storm hits.

“Listen here, bald ass. You see this? The base is two, no, three goddamn shades too pale. This ugly ass blush clashes with my undertone. And the fuckin’ bronzer she slapped on is as blended as a club sandwich.” The cool temperature absolutely plummets at the model’s frigid tone. He points a finger at the girl near the smashed palettes, his hair swaying with the accusatory motion. “‘Professional’? Am I a fuckin’ joke to you all?”

The girl — his now presumed ex-makeup artist — storms away in a fit of anger and complete embarrassment, and the balding man stands there glued to the floor, not sure at all what to do.

It’d be a bad time to make yourself known.

“Atsumu-kun.”

You all turn your heads to the clothing racks to see who is bold enough to break the ice. When she comes into view, you notice that this woman is tall. The next thing you notice is that she is beautiful, very _very_ beautiful.

Walking right up to the makeup station, she plants herself right by the occupied chair, starting at the other model.

“I’ll get Anna to salvage your disaster of a face. You know Anna. She’s really good at what she does.” Her voice is like blasé honey. Another woman — shorter, brown haired — hurries from the racks to stand beside her. “No one wants to stay a second longer in this freezing weather, so let this go, Atsumu-kun.”

“Woman, that’s not the point,” Atsumu huffs, crossing one leg over the other as he leans far back into the chair to look up at her. But you still cannot see his face. “We agreed on _my_ team, but clearly this fuckin’ _reputable_ magazine’s taken a massive shit on that.”

The balding man moves to interrupt him but he gets stopped again by an iron-clad hand. This time, it’s more slender and colourfully manicured.

“You stay out of this,” the tall woman smiles disparagingly to the balding man, stooping to allow the other woman, Anna, to drape a parka over her bare shoulders. “The time, Miya.”

When the male model doesn’t reply, she rolls her eyes, turning to her assistant. Anna mumbles something under her breath before cocking her head in your direction, directing the tall woman’s gaze over to you.

It’s sharp, grey, and so very subtle, like a river that snakes around the plains peacefully only to engulf the earth whole in a flash storm.

You’re being examined under the gaze of a very beautiful mink, her eyes slow and inquisitive. She gives you a thorough once over, and nods, pleasantness once again returning to her features.

You blink, and she only looks back at you, her red-painted lips curving into a slow smile.

“Manager?” Her lips silently sound the three syllables, eyes crinkling at your unfamiliarity.

You only mouth back a “yes”.

Her almond-shaped eyes slide over to the blond model’s direction, and she taps her slender wrist at you.

Oh right, the time.

This would be as good a time as any other.

Smoothing down your blouse, you know it’s probably time for you to do your job.

“Miya-san?” Your voice is neutral, expression simple and pleasant just like it would in front of an annoyed customer at the café.

When there’s barely any motion from the chair, you take a step towards the halo. The reflection in the mirror shifts into focus, and you realize that he’s moving too.

He can see you clearly this whole time, and he’s now following you with his eyes.

You can feel the burn of all the gazes shift towards you, but the glare in the reflection holds you in a hazel bind as he fixates on your approaching figure.

 _He’s beautiful too_ , you realise. More so in person. And his glare is much more — is dangerous the right word to use for a model? But as beautifully irate as he is, it won’t do to be intimidated by a customer on the first day. You have a job to do.

Pushing the situation at hand to the front of your mind, you plaster on your customer service smile once again, but this time with a touch more warmth — you will be working with this man after all.

“Miya-san,” you try once again, “I’m your new manager.”

You give him a small bow knowing that he can see and hear you clearly.

Atsumu stills, and the audience around you waits with curious silence. You stand behind him; with the mirror there, the bristling beast will not be alarmed. Hands folded at your front, you maintain the warm, pleasant smile on your features.

Just as your teeth start to clatter and your eyes water slightly from the blinding lights and sharp winds, the model tosses his phone onto the makeup counter and leans back to tilt his face at you. He closes his eyes.

“You’re late.”

Sharp and cold. But from the collective exhales behind you, you think that you should be okay.

Just as you’re about to tell him — calmly and pleasantly — that “I’m not late”, “yes, I’m sure. Kita-san told me seven in the evening”, the female model from earlier steps in, stopping you.

“Anna, quick,” she says in a brisk smoothness, “we’ve got a lot of grounds to cover.”

She turns to you and shakes her head ever so slightly, and you’re suddenly reminded of what you learned from the café: when the customer is placated, you move on.

She beckons you over, and you’re about to leave, but then your eyes narrow.

This isn’t the Tōdai café. This is Ginza.

And this man isn’t your customer. Kita pays you to manage him.

So to the surprise of your gorgeous white knight, you turn back to Miya Atsumu and plaster on the same smile you gave his boss — _just enough_.

“Miya-san, I haven’t introduced myself properly.”

You stand right next to him, looking at his profile that is being toned and prepped.

He really is gorgeous.

Atsumu’s eyes slowly blink open, and he glances at you out of the corner of his vision. But he remains silent, merely appraising you.

Fine enough.

You hold your hand out, smiling your best smile.

His golden gaze flits to your outstretched hand, considering it for a moment before looking back up at you.

Your smile falters slightly as he just continues looking at you with detached amusement.

Jaws clenched, you don’t retract your hand as your smile turns cold.

“I look forward to working with you, Miya-san,” you grin, eyes focused straight into his own. And then with a small breath, you maintain your voice as steady as possible when you say the next line. “I like a good challenge.”

Anna’s hands stop working, and there’s a pause.

And then Atsumu’s eyes go wide, all the light hitting his irises and the pupils are blown out of proportion, swallowing the gold. A slow, saturated smile stretches across his features, much to Anna’s annoyance, but even she can’t hide her amusement.

The female model is looking at this interaction with unabashed amusement but before she can watch Atsumu return a counter, the photographer’s assistant interrupts from the rooftop edge.

“Naomi-san.” The young apprentice hurries over. “Takayama-san suggests that you do your solo shots first.”

Naomi whips her head around, and you almost think that she’s going to dismiss the poor girl. But with an artfully masked reluctance, she signals for Anna to leave with her for a moment for last minute touch ups before the assistant continues with your fussy male model.

That leaves you and him alone to pick up where you left off.

Your hand is still cordial before him, and your smile is still plastered on.

The ball’s in his court.

And he’s clearly enjoying the rally.

“You like a good challenge, huh?” Atsumu smirks, hand shooting out to grasp yours.

Before you can register what’s going on, he’s already brought it up to his lips, warmth against your cold hand as his words break the surface of your skin.

With his lips curling languidly like a fox’s grin, he looks up at you. “I’m happy for you then.”

You almost flinch when he presses his soft lips to your skin, and you could feel the smile linger on you a touch too long.

When he finally resurfaces, he beams at you like he had just given you a compliment. But from your five minutes of interaction with this man, you already know better.

You’ve seen the beautiful woman currently seducing the camera fifteen metres from you; you’ve met the gorgeous staff at his agency; heck, you’re at least acquainted with your own cousin’s circle. You know that Atsumu’s not happy for you.

Atsumu is giving you a challenge.

One that you’ve already accepted.

“I’ll work hard,” you smile back nicely.

Those amber eyes flash in the evening suns, and there is infinite amusement in them. He grins, mocking smile finally relaxing into something simply too beautiful for you to register.

His lips move, and you see the hyacinths that fall from them.

“I look forward to it, Miss Manager.”

And you shake to that.


	4. Four

By the time that Atsumu is styled and dressed, Naomi is finishing up the last of her solo shots. Accompanying the male model to the shooting area, you watch in awe as she absolutely incinerates not only the camera but also the bystanders’ gaze. 

“Not bad, eh?” Atsumu smirks at your expression. “Everything she wears sells. You’ve probably seen her in magazines. Or billboards.”

“Not really,” you mumble, eyes still captivated by the way the mini black dress and shimmering diamonds sway with her form. 

“Hmm,” he pauses, taking a curious look at his new manager. “What ‘bout me?”

This time you face him, half wanting to gauge his reactions and half preparing an apology. “Not really?” 

His perfectly sculpted brow shoots up. Anna laughs beside you. 

“You ever been to Shibuya?” Atsumu presses, an inflection in his tone as he looks at you with widened eyes. 

You almost roll your eyes at his phrasing, settling for a reluctant nod.

“Then you’ve seen me.”

“Miya-san, I pretty sure—”

“You have.”

“I don’t remember—” The derision was about to escape your filter but then you stop, because you _do_ remember. Maybe. Possibly. “Uh, Shibuya 109? Three years ago? Winter?”

He pauses, hesitating a little. “Giorgio Armani.”

You give a slight nod, unsure of whether that was a question or statement.

He stays silent.

So does Anna, but she’s just curious as to how this will all unfold.

Of all the hundreds of billboards that you’ve merely passed by in Tokyo, one pushes to the forefront of your mind. Black hair, amber eyes, broad back. A sunlit smile that scorches your soul. 

You have seen him before.

“That’s you?” You look up at Atsumu incredulously.

He returns your realization with a rather offended scowl, brows curved up and lips drawn the opposite way.

Holding up your hands, you give him a nervous little laugh. “Miya-san, in my defence, your hair colour wasn’t as, uh, vibrant back then.” 

“You—” Atsumu looks thoroughly offended now. “My face’s been plastered all over Japan for the past, what?, twenty years now?, and you’re tellin’ me you don’t know who I am.” 

“I really _really_ don’t follow fashion, Miya-san,” you try to stifle the full on laughter at his disbelief. “Don’t take this personally.”

Before Atsumu could threaten to fire you on your first day, Anna pokes him in the back, nodding towards the set where Naomi is currently glaring sugar-frosted daggers at him.

“Hey! Baby corn!” she yells, arms stretched out to let the assistants tape and sew another dress onto her body right there in the freezing open. “Stop imposing your ego on her, and get your ass here. It’s time.”

He makes a face at her but you can see his posture start to unfurl and his gaze level. With a deep breath, Atsumu unzips his parka and drops it in your arms. You scowl at him, but he only rolls his shoulders and stands up taller than he had before. You now really have to crane your neck to face him.

Glancing down, Atsumu smirks. He has your full attention. 

“Miss Manager,” he sings, holding his head even higher as Anna straightens out his black suit jacket — the only upper body wear that he’s wearing on this wintery night, you note with a frown. “Focus on me, and I’ll show you why you should know who I am.”

When he’s peering down at you like this, the white lights from the set descending on his crown, his smirk and impishness shadowed by Ginza’s suns, you have to fight the shiver running through you. 

He’ll make good on his promise.

“Miya!”

Face dropping, he huffs when Naomi yells at him again. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Atsumu gives you one last small grin, and turns to stride onto set, taking his place next to Naomi, who looks very annoyed in a long gown. 

A handful of words is exchanged between the two of them and the photographer before Atsumu gives a firm nod, and everyone promptly returns to their respective places in front and behind the camera.

Right before the camera starts clicking, he wraps an arm around Naomi’s waist, pulling her into him perfectly as both of their expressions change. She is no longer glaring at him like he’s the dirt beneath her feet, and his grin melts into a liquored gaze. 

Naomi dials up her charisma for the camera — an elegant pout, a gown spilling like fine cabernet sauvignon, leg waltzing over the sultry cut, entangled with her partner’s taller frame.

They step around each other in a seductive metropolitan winter’s dance, selling dreams of success and wealth, of crystal decanters and beautiful fun with the city envious at your feet. 

But as bright as Naomi shines, he is Miya Atsumu. 

Narrowed eyes and bitten lips, hair a little tousled in the evening wind. His long stretch of neck cascades down to his wide jacket-clad chest, the pale winter flesh like a plain of snow against the metropolitan black of the suit and night. Possessive allure for the camera, hands entwined around her waist, and leg intruding just enough into her space to show off his belonging but not enough to obstruct the dress. 

It’s clear in Naomi’s eyes, the unwavering and free admiration for Atsumu’s finesse in this game. She may be all honeyed sticks and stones with her words, but her affected gaze directs you back to him, and once again, you, like so many of the others on set, have your eyes on one person only. 

_“Focus on me, Miss Manager.”_

Even if he hadn’t said that, you’d look to him. 

Miya Atsumu is brilliant like the midnight sun. 

And you begin to understand why he’s Japan's top model.

This is different from Shibuya’s billboard, different from your memories of the campaign that made you hesitate in your tracks one sunny day. You stood in the middle of the crossing, ensnared by the fresh smile of that year’s Armani model. You didn’t know his name, only his smile, and that was enough. 

But this, it’s more than that. If that campaign was the summer sun, then this right here is the sun that swallows the night. 

At this moment, he’s very very bright. 

And you want to get closer. 

“He’s good, isn’t he?” A sultry voice purrs from beside you. 

“Huh?”

Naomi chuckles lowly. “Don’t stare for too long. He’s somewhat of a wild fox in this circle.”

“Weren’t you—” you frown in confusion, looking back to the set where Atsumu is now focusing on his solo shots.

“Oh dear, it seems like you’ve gotten ensnared by the little fox,” Naomi laughs, shaking her head. “You have a lot to learn.”

“Uh.” You raise your eyebrows, not quite knowing what to say or how to interpret her comment. So you settle for an introduction. “I’m his new manager.”

Another laugh from her. “You’re a cute one, aren’t you?”

You flush at her curious look. 

“Call me Naomi,” she grins cheekily, extending a long, graceful hand out to you. Giving you a softer look, she winks. “I hope I get to see you around more, dear.”

“Likewise,” you reply politely, giving her your best handshake. “I’ll be in your care, Naomi.”

The model looks like she’s about to ask you something more, but you hear Atsumu call for you on set. 

“Oi, Miss Manager! Stop talkin’ to the succubus, and come here.”

Naomi rolls her eyes as she pats you gently on the arm. 

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” she sighs. “Work smart, dear, and you'll become the fox’s handler in no time.” 

You give her a questioning look, and she only shakes her head with an easy smile. Atsumu calls for you again, and you give the female model a quick bow before hurrying over to your own model with his heavy parka in hand. 

“I know she’s hot and all but you’re not here to fuck around, Miss Manager,” Atsumu teases as you approach him. “That’s my job.”

At your unimpressed frown, he laughs, tossing you his phone.

“Here.”

He tousles up his bangs, and smudges his lip colour. Grimacing at the stain on his hand, he turns to you, grabbing his parka from your arms and throwing it over his shoulders.

“What do you think?”

“Uh, what?” You stand there awkwardly, holding his phone and feeling rather like a human coat stand.

“Didn’t you listen to Kita? Or did Aran do orientation?” Atsumu sighs, his leather boots tapping against the stone floor. “It’s part of your job, takin’ my photos, managin’ my accounts. Whatever you managers do.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, reaching into your jacket pocket. They did explain it to you; it’s just that your charge happens to be as effective at communicating as your university’s Illuminati of a financial aid department. 

You pull out the work phone Aran gave you yesterday. Atsumu raises an eyebrow as you hold the device up to his face.

“Shouldn’t I use this to take photos then? If I’m going to manage your accounts?” 

He scoffs, walking towards the railing. 

“No, I don’t trust you or your lack of tastes yet.”

“Says the one wearing a suit jacket with nothing underneath in this freezing cold weather.”

“It’s fashion, sweetheart,” he grins, waggling his eyebrows at you. “Plus, I’m plenty hot.”

“Sure, okay, Miya-san. Whatever you say,” you sigh, putting away your phone. “How do you want this?”

His smirk wanes, and he moves to lean back against the railing. You see his shoulders relax as he brings his arm up to rest against the metal bar. 

“Lower your angle. Yeah, that’s good. It makes the neck look longer — that’s my signature, by the way.” He tilts his head back to further accentuate his well-established point. “Then focus on my right — jaw’s sharper this side.” 

He turns his head to the left, and you can viscerally feel the clean cut of his bone structure. Right now, you’re both the audience and the photographer that he’s directing all his energy at. It’s less intense than that of his proper shoot, but in a manner that you can’t explain, this image of debonair suits him even more. 

And for you, it’s more fatal. 

You’re not sure if the phone is overheating or if you’re just getting too warm in your downy jacket. 

You can’t believe there hasn’t been a bad angle yet. 

“No, god, no, woman! Don’t do the forty-five degree. If I want the schoolgirl selfie, I would’ve invested in a titanium selfie stick.”

Suddenly, the temperature is normal again. Rolling your eyes, you stoop down for a full body shot. 

He would be much more attractive if he only kept his mouth shut. But you can’t deny his tremendous appeal: long parka over his shoulders; that damn suit jacket — now fully buttoned up, but it only makes the perceiver’s gaze more curious; casually windswept hair; and softened lips that won’t stop moving. 

He smoulders and smirks and — _is he really biting his lips?_

You’re afraid of what you might find on his social media accounts. 

He laughs at your frown, pushing off the railing. “Good enough, Miss Manager. Last one’s for you.”

“I don’t want it,” you scoff, handing him his phone back. “Do you want to check it over?”

“Yeah.” His voice takes on a serious edge. “I’ll put ’em in the shared album so you can see which ones I end up choosin’ and the edits I make.”

You nod, slightly taken aback by his instant switch. He scrolls through the photos and gives an appreciative hum here and there. 

You turn back to the rest of the set. They have mostly cleaned up already, lights gone and the dressing area is fully packed away. Naomi and her assistant are also nowhere in sight. Turning back to Atsumu, you smooth your hands over your trousers. 

“So, what’re you doing afterwards?”

He stops scrolling and looks up with a teasing grin. 

“Askin’ me out to dinner already, Miss Manager?”

When he adds the head tilt, you’re sure your face looked better when a café customer asked for a decaf double shot espresso. “I wasn’t ever going to ask, but okay.”

“Huh, but the others—” Atsumu stops, straightening up. “Never mind. Call us the car.”

“Uh, okay, sure, Miya-san.” You pull out your phone again before pausing, peering up at him. “Us?”

“Roppongi?”

“Oh, I haven’t moved in yet.”

He blinks at you, not quite registering your words.

“What do you mean you haven’t moved in yet?”

“I have an apartment? That I was living in originally?” you try to explain, one hand texting the driver’s contact and the other waving goodbye to the security guard as you head to the elevators. He gives you a small nod before following you two indoors.

Atsumu chuckles as he notices you watch in confusion at the security guard pressing the elevator button for you. 

The model clears his throat before sweeping his hands at the two of you with a flare. 

“Miss Manager, this is Kouyou-chan. Kouyou-chan, Miss Manager.” 

“ _Kouyou_?”

“I’m Chinese, Miss,” the security guard gives you a small smile. “The characters are _Takashi_ and _Isamu_.”

“Kouyou-chan here’s my best bodyguard bro,” Atsumu pipes in, throwing an arm around the other man’s hulking shoulders. “Does a great job at keepin’ both the fans and assassins away.”

“Assassins?” His attitude isn’t quite there but you don’t think it warrants murder.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” Kouyou sighs, shifting Atsumu’s arm off of him. “There are no assassins unless you count his exes, who’re possibly worse than assassins, but that’s down to personal preferences.”

“Ah, I see. Makes sense.” 

You back away from Atsumu slightly.

The model’s protests land on unhearing ears. 

“Also, just use my name,” you smile at the bodyguard, holding out your hand to the Chinese man. “I’ll be in your care, Kouyou-san.”

“Likewise, Miss.” His lips turn up just the slightest as he grasps your hand with a shake that’s much gentler than you’d expected. 

Atsumu watches the whole exchange with intrigue. You’re already on friendly terms with his bodyguard. 

“Atsumu-san,” Kouyou turns to address him, “will she be going back with us?”

“Nah.” That’s another thing that intrigues him. 

_Why haven’t you moved in yet?_

“I have an apartment near Tōdai,” you clarify. “I haven’t officially graduated yet.”

“Are you in classes still?” Kouyou asks.

“No, I’m just waiting for them to grade my thesis.”

He nods as Atsumu remains confused. 

“Are you gonna stay there?” he asks. 

“No, I’ll probably move into Roppongi sometime this week.”

“Oh, that’s kinda weird.”

“Why?”

Kouyou holds the button for you two to get in first. Atsumu ushers you in, waving off your quick word of thanks before stepping in as well. Just as Kouyou’s about to get in, his phone rings. 

“Give me one sec,” he frowns, checking the caller display. “It’s the big boss.”

He goes back out the doors, and walks onto the rooftop garden. Atsumu doesn’t even miss a beat as he ushers you back out, letting the doors close. 

“So why’s it weird?”

He raises a brow.

“Why’s it weird that I’m moving in later?” you ask again, idly watching the numbers on the little display above quickly roll past.

“The other ones all moved in right away,” he shrugs, leaning back against the opposite wall as he notes your reflection on the elevator doors. “And you’re a bit ahead of schedule, but they did all ask me out to dinner.”

A snort of disbelief escapes you as you shake your head.

“And they all eventually tried to fuck me.”

You choke.

“Uh, what?” you sputter out, staring at him through the mirrored surfaces in horror at this new and unwanted piece of information.

His laughter is immediate, taking far too much amusement in your shocked expression.

“You’re totally new to this, aren't you?” he grins, voice breathy as he lets his laughter die down. “Man, where did Kita even find you?”

You give his reflection a small glare as you huff. “In the normal world.”

Another burst of laughter from him.

“Don’t worry, Miss Manager,” Atsumu smiles slyly. “You’re pretty cute, so maybe I’ll let you fuck me before you quit.”

Your sour face turns into pure lemon juice. “Not happening.”

“You quittin’ or you fuckin’ me?”

“Both.”

Your face sets into a pleasant smile, and he grins in response, pushing himself off the wall. 

His reflection comes closer from behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body heat radiate onto your back. You missed the split second to take a breath, but you don’t dare inhale when he slowly leans forward, his cheeks right behind your ear as his breathy chuckle fans onto your cheeks.

His chest brushes against your back, and he reaches forward to give the elevator button a firm push. 

“You’re an interesting one.” 

Completely still, the two of you are statues in place. He hasn’t lifted his hold on the button yet, and you can feel the smirk brush dangerously close to your ear. 

Just as you’re about to yank yourself forward, Atsumu breezily lifts his presence from you. The upturned curl of his lips is hardly subtle as he watches your reflection with a crinkle in his eyes. 

He is simply interested. 

You can’t let him get under your skin. 

Your own lips curling up, you turn and give him your widest smile, teeth and all. If you’re going to be thrown the most tart, most gorgeous lemon of the bunch, you’re going to wring a damn good lemon tart out of it. 

Smoothing your hands on your trousers, with purpose and precision, you stand up straight, looking up at him with a dazzling nonchalance. 

“And you, Miya-san, are insufferable.”

He bares his teeth back in a dazzling smile. 

“Miss Manager, you’ve got yourself the best challenge.” 

The garden doors open, the elevator dings, and Kouyou comes back in all apologetic. 

“Sorry about the wait.” He holds the elevator doors open for the two of you again, and this time, you step aside to let Atsumu enter first with a small, professional bow. 

Internally grinning with a small sense of satisfaction, you maintain your pleasantries when his expression drops. 

“Thanks.”

You barely catch the muttered word but it’s there, however grudgingly. 

Behind you, you swear that you heard Kouyou’s almost imperceptible snort of laughter. 

With the way that Atsumu is glaring at you two during the whole elevator ride, you can confirm that Kouyou most definitely did laugh. And under the passive shades of his, his eyes are probably just barely crinkled in the corners. 

But when the elevator arrives at the parking garage’s first level, you pause, unsure of whether you should hold the door for Atsumu again. With how he’s still frowning at you through the reflective doors, you don’t think that this bristling beast would appreciate another little stunt from you. 

“Go first.”

The doors are opened, and Kouyou gives you a curt nod. 

The bodyguard has smoothly placed himself between you and Atsumu, letting you exit first to the black nanny car. 

_You’ve got a lot to learn._

Breathing out a word of thanks, you quickly shuffle out as you hear an audible huff from the model as he exits after you.

You’re sure that everyone in that elevator knows that you lost that round. 

With a small sigh, you once again hold the door for Atsumu as he gets in the car. 

“The schedule says to ‘do not disturb’, so I’ll wait for you at your apartment on Monday, Miya-san?” you clarify as he settles in. “I’ll have moved in by then.”

“Yeah, do not disturb,” he echos with a wink before pulling out his phone. You know when you no longer hold a customer's attention. 

“It’s nice meeting you, Kouyou-san, Tachibana-san.” You give a little wave to his bodyguard and chauffeur as Atsumu’s door slowly eases close.

They give you small nods in acknowledgement.

“Oh, Miss Manager, one more thing.” Atsumu’s leg kicks out to stop the door abruptly. He leans forward from his seat until he can see the questioning look on your face. “‘Miya-san’ makes us sound like strangers. It’s Atsumu to you, sweetheart.”

Your expression falls flat, and any residual embarrassment evaporates with the warmth in your cheeks. Not even bothering to deign his comment with a proper response — you can see Kouyou tapping away at his phone and Tachibana-san fiddling with the car’s entertainment display — you only give Atsumu an increasingly tightlipped smile. 

“That’s all for now,” he grins before finally allowing the door to resume following its rightful course. “And don’t be late next time, Miss Manager.”

With the last ounce of professionalism you can manage for the rest of the week, you give him a beaming smile. 

“Good night, Miya-san.” 


	5. Five

“You told him _what_?” Yukie gasps. “Y/n, you can’t just tell your boss that—”

“That’s he’s an A-list asshole?”

You grin sleepily to yourself. Huddled in the depths of your comforter, you’re nursing a thermos of ginger tea while the phone is on speaker by your pillow.

With how exhausting last night was, you don’t even want to look at the phone screen right now, much less the sun.

Even though it’s already late in the winter afternoon.

The sky is a stalwart orange, dancing on the edges of a setting sun. Your feet are grasping at whatever warmth the bundled blanket can provide but it’s enough. Compared to late last night, and earlier this morning for the matter, your rented apartment is already very warm. It also helps that Yukie had left you a thermos of honeyed ginger tea before leaving for work.

You can’t really say that the first meeting with your boss made you all too cozy last night. Determined and all fired up, yes, but it is not the winter sunshine and ginger tea kind of warmth.

A locker door slams shut on the other line, and you hear the familiar lazy drawl of “close them gently!”, “good work today”, and “see you tomorrow”.

You don’t recognize who Yukie’s talking to; it must be the new kid that they hired to fill in for you. Honestly, if you weren’t best friends and roommates with your old manager, your sudden departure wouldn’t have been possible. 

“Darling,” said manager returns to the line, the clacking of her keyboard resuming its steady pace, “tell me you didn’t actually say that to him.”

“No, but I wanted to,” you laugh, setting the thermos onto the nightstand. “I just said ‘I like a good challenge.’”

There’s a long, drawn out breath.

“Oh my,” Yukie mutters. Whatever bookkeeping task she’s working on stops. “You might as well straight up call him a pain-in-the-ass.”

She’s even more concerned than you are about your own job. Under normal circumstances, you’d be similarly concerned about your lack of professionalism. But Miya Atsumu is not normal circumstances.

“That’s not too far off.”

“Girl!”

“Okay, okay.”

Grinning, you roll over to look up at the lone, pink gel-cling stuck to the ceiling. The two of you had accidentally chucked it up last Christmas in a fever dream of procrastinations and finals, and it’s served as a reminder since.

Who would’ve known that one year later, you’d end up managing one of the most infuriating egos in Japan?

“Did he get mad?”

“Nah, he took it well enough. Even issued the challenge back.”

There’s a big exhale on her end, followed by a door suddenly opening. Your conversation stops. You hear her yell “please learn to close them gently!”, and her furious typing starts again as you two wait for the door to finally click shut again.

“Darling,” she sighs, the clacking slowing down, “you’re not here to fight him. You’re here to do your job. Three hundred and fifty thousand a month, Roppongi apartment, free food sometimes.”

“It’s probably fine,” you wave her off, already imagining the serious glare that never quite matches her lazy drawl. “Kita-san even laughed about it.”

This time, there isn’t even a sigh.

“You told your real boss?” Yukie whispers indignantly. It’s hardly threatening, but you can hear the quiet horror in her voice. “What is wrong with you?”

“You know what, Yukie?” you laugh. “I don’t think they’re normal people.”

“You’re not normal people!”

“Hey!”

“They’re models, high society folks. Money, lawyers, connections. And you’re here, insulting one of the most—” she stops short with a groan. There’s a sound that’s vaguely like a head banging on a table. “Girl, are you even supposed to talk to me about these things? Isn’t there an NDA?”

You pause. There was indeed a whole lot to digest in that pile of documents that you signed for Kita the other day. And there was indeed a non-disclosure agreement.

“Uh, I think it’s fine,” you conclude with a nod. This isn’t the selling or circulation of personal details and-or malicious gossip.

“Oh my god, why are you like this?” she sounds so very disappointed in you but you know her love for gossip is even stronger. True to herself, without missing a beat, her voice drops, and she whispers almost conspiratorially to you, “why aren’t they normal?”

You have to laugh.

“They’re like weirdly invested in this whole modelling thing,” you try to explain, remembering how cold the night was and how underdressed Naomi was, how quickly Atsumu’s entire demeanour shifted with the setting. “It’s like they’re completely different people on and off camera. Kinda strange to watch actually.”

“So they're professional good looking people?” Yukie snorts, aimlessly pressing one key after another. “Got a few masks, do what the bankers do as well.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you grin at her flippant tone, “but actually though. Modelling isn’t just sitting there and looking pretty.”

“Uh huh.”

“I got back at like around one, right? The whole thing wrapped up at ten-thirty, and we stayed for even longer.” There’s a sympathetic grumble on the other end. “Yeah, I wasn’t even there for the whole thing. They’d been doing prep for at least two hours before I’d arrived.”

“You were late on your first day of work?”

The horrified tone is distorting her drawl again.

“No, no, no,” you hurriedly explain. “Kita-san gave me the wrong time.”

“Oh my, by accident?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Yeah, long story short, it was a test.”

“Now that’s definitely not normal,” she frowns.

“He apologised a lot afterwards. And apparently, I passed whatever I was being tested on.”

“And you got away with throwing the gauntlet at you little boss.”

“Yeah, basically, wait—” you stop, staring at your buzzing phone. There’s an incoming call. “Speak of the devil.”

“Wait, aren’t you free today?”

“Well, he clearly needs me for something,” you shrug with a small smile. “Kita-san did say I was on call basically all the time.”

“Oh my, okay, I guess you really are a PA,” Yukie sighs. This gossip session will need to be rainchecked. “Your cousin’s helping you move in this weekend, right?”

“Yeah, so don’t worry about it.” You slowly sit up with a stretch and yawn. “I’ll drop by the café sometime. Bye, love you!”

Clearing your throat, you end the call and accept the incoming one.

“Good afternoon, Miya-san,” you smile. “How can I help you?”

“Finally.” There is a huff on the other end. “Come to Roppongi.” And then as an almost afterthought, “Now.”

“Uh, is there a problem?” He doesn’t have a scheduled event for today. In fact, his schedule is kindly marked “Do Not Disturb Even If You Think He Might’ve Been Kidnapped” the entire weekend by Aran, who told you to take these things at face value. And since Atsumu had reiterated the “do not disturb” last night, you’re taking heed of this command.

“No time. I don’t care if you have to fly here. My apartment, now.”

The line cuts, and you left staring at your disconnected phone in confusion and slight annoyance. With a sigh, you haul yourself out of the warm and toasty bed, hurrying to make yourself as presentable as possible.

A decent, unwrinkled sweater and black jeans. Looking at your bare face, you only sigh again, shrugging at your reflection and throwing on a jacket.

He did say to fly there.

You’re all ready to go until you’re stepping into the elevator. Falling back out and shouting a garbled apology to your upstairs neighbour who’s about to pick up her kid, you run back into your apartment to grab your work ID. Aran had said that it’s imperative to bring it everywhere at all times, until your face is attached to Atsumu’s — metaphorically.

Now equipped with your work ID, you run out in the freezing cold of late winter afternoon towards Inarichō station. It’s rush hour, and you’re fidgeting with impatience as you queue for the train. What does he want you for at — you check your phone — now five fifty-four in the afternoon? He didn’t sound anxious. But maybe he’s the cool type to keep up his image even when he has a fatal, open wound.

The train fills up, and you have to wait for another one.

You text him. The messages go unread.

You call him. The call redirects to your own voicemail.

And when you finally get on the next train, squished between all the other people heading towards Tokyo concentrate, a string of curses almost escapes you when you see his dazzling, carefree face light up on the little display above the train doors.

Who needs the new Tom Ford cologne when you’re just trying not to drown in Tokyo’s rush hour?

Actually, maybe the haggard salaryman next to you does. Poor man’s probably pulled a few all-nighters with the end of the year approaching.

One change of trains later, you finally arrive at the inconspicuous Roppongi apartment you were only allowed to memorize the address of. In there, supermodel Miya Atsumu is waiting for your help, and true to Aran’s word, upon entry, you’re immediately accosted by the concierge checking for your work ID _and_ your student ID.

Finally having a chance to stand still, you check your appearance in the air conditioned elevator. Honestly, it’s not looking too pretty, and you wonder whether Atsumu has any of the Tom Ford Oud Wood cologne to spare you.

The elevator doors chime open, and you’re faced with a single nondescript doorway.

Even the hallways in this low-density apartment are air conditioned.

You rap on the door sharply. “Miya-san? It’s me, your, uh, manager! Are you okay?”

“Just come in!”

You try the electronic door handle. It beeps open.

You don’t think that Kouyou would be too happy about that.

“I’m coming in,” you call out.

You set your shoes to the side and slip on one of the guest slippers by the shoe racks. The walls are a dark grey, and there’s not much in terms of decor, not that you can really tell from just the foyer and hallway. But with how much room is dedicated to the entrance alone, it’s a generously sized house. And it seems pretty clean.

“You’re late!” From the sound of it, Atsumu’s farther down the hallway.

“Yesterday, I wasn’t—” you begin, walking slowly to find him. At the end of the hallway, where it opens into a large living-dining area, you see him hunched over the kitchen island on the right. 

“Yeah, I know,” he cuts in, standing up with a nod and a grin.

His hair is mussed and unstyled, and you can see the hints of dark circles under his eyes. In this mix of hard and soft light, he looks more approachable, more down to earth, as much as an abnormally beautiful supermodel can be.

He puts down the rose-gold measuring spoon in his hand.

“Kita told me. Guess I’ll excuse that one.” With a glance at the clock on the wall, he frowns. “But today, I called you like an hour ago.”

“I live in Taito. It takes at least twenty minutes to get here.”

You quickly look him over. He doesn’t seem hurt; a bit haggard but he’s standing as tall and as suavely as he did last night, even in this mess of kitchen equipment. He looks comfortable, you conclude, too comfortable in your presence with his super oversized Gucci shirt, oversized to the point that you can very clearly see his collarbones peeking out.

“So why’re you forty minutes late?”

“It’s _rush hour_ , Miya-san,” you say evenly. “The trains were packed.”

“Take a taxi next time,” he grins.

“It’ll still be rush hour, Miya-san.” The smile on your lips has died on its way to your eyes.

“You won’t look like an exhausted college kid if you take a taxi,” Atsumu presses, looking you over as a confused frown drops his easy smile.

Your less-than-easy smile also drops. This man has probably never taken the metro in his life even when his face haunts the stations and trains.

“Miya-san,” you sigh, “I _am_ an exhausted college kid.”

His expression lightens up as you can see the “aha!” moment going off in his head.

“Just take a taxi next time.”

“Hello? Exhausted college kid?”

“Charge it to Aran.” With a triumphant nod to himself and a flippant shrug at you, he smiles like he’s just solved all four years of your exhaustion on instant noodles dinners and neglected circadian rhythms. “And guest bathroom’s over there. Go freshen up, sweetheart. We’ve got work to do.”

It’s no use. You’re talking to Miya Atsumu. His mother’s a retired famous model-turned-designer and his father some capitalist hotshot. He’s not going to understand why you’d have to think twice before charging a taxi ride to the company account. Following his instructions, you head to the bathroom. It’s sleek, modern, and clean, nothing unexpected. The toiletries are very complete, and it seems barely used.

Washing your hands and face, you head back out to join Atsumu at the kitchen island.

He’s studying something on his tablet when you stop next to him.

“Why do you smell like that?” He blinks, looking up at you.

You stop to sniff at the air around you. It’s the Tom Ford Oud Wood in the set of guest toiletries that you helped yourself to.

“You said to freshen up.”

“I mean, yes, but—” he starts, pausing at your confused tilt of head. “Oh, never mind.”

People didn’t usually spray on someone else’s cologne. Even though the full bottle is there, Atsumu hadn’t expected anyone other than himself to actually use it. They usually came with their own scents like the fucking Chanel No. 5 that he’s now allergic to.

“You worked in a cafe, right?” He shifts the tablet to face you. “You probably bake.”

The tablet’s browser is opened to a cheesecake recipe. It doesn’t look too difficult, but with the way that the counter is scattered with flour, measuring cups, sugar, and various other baking equipment and ingredients, Atsumu’s not doing so hot in the art of baking.

In the far corner of the island, you spy a bottle of rosé wine.

“Are you making these,” you muse, going back to the recipe, a small smile on your lips, “for a lover?”

His tone is light with a syrupy kind of spun humour as he turns to lean against the countertop.

“Kinda,” he grins.

“Huh,” you reply noncommittally, doing a quick calculation of the remaining ingredients.

“An acquaintance.”

“Oh.” Disregarding the three broken egg yolks mixed with the egg whites and the frozen butter currently sitting in a puddle of melted cream cheese, you figure that you can scrape by and make one successful cake.

“She’s supposed to come over this afternoon,” he sighs, dipping his finger into the failed cream cheese mixture and twirling it around mindlessly, “but her husband wants her at an important deal today.”

Fifteen grams of unsalted butter, line the parchment strips—

“What?” you frown, looking up at him, trying to see if he’s joking.

“You’ll get used to this.” His grin stretches at your wariness. “If it helps, her husband knows about me.”

“It doesn’t? Not really?” Your voice is rising, and you’re sure that the disbelief on your face is single-handedly fuelling his ever-widening shit-eating grin.

“He’s got a few of his own too,” he laughs, taking an egg and spinning it around with faux interest, “from what she’s told me.”

“So why are they married?” you cry, snatching the egg from him before he can do anymore damage to the scant ingredients you’re now left with.

Handing him the parchment strips instead, you instruct him to make the cake liners for you.

You start on the recipe as he goes to sit at the counter seats with his scissor and ruler. Turning on the shining silver faucet, you start to work on making a double boiler for the cream cheese and butter mixture.

“Common interests,” he says casually, watching you measure out all the ingredients carefully before examining his task. “A lot of them.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him as you grab the butter. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it is,” he smirks, starting to cut up the paper.

“Okay…” It’s a mutually beneficial marriage then. With a frown, you glance back at the recipe, reaching for the eggs as you start separating the yolks from the whites. “So is Mrs. Souffle Cheesecake the only woman you’re seeing?”

Atsumu’s grin just never leaves his face as he focuses on cutting a straight line.

“No.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Are they all…” you pause, letting the cream cheese and butter melt into each other, “acquaintances?”

You pass him the rest of the butter, showing him how to grease up the pan and papers.

“Yes.”

“Are they all married?” A couple of more stirs and the fat mixture should be done.

“No.”

“Ah, so you’re currently in three relationships of various fineprints.”

He pauses, pressing down the parchment circle onto the bottom of the cake pan before grinning up at you.

“No.”

“What?”

Finished with his first task, Atsumu nonchalantly grabs the combined cream cheese and butter mixture from you as you instruct him to add and whisk in the yolks one by one. “There’s four.”

“But you just said—”

“You only asked ‘bout the women, Miss Manager,” he smirks, amusement obvious in his tone as he watches the words register in your head.

“Oh,” you finally reply. This little tidbit isn’t surprising; rumours sometimes do have truth to them. You’re only a little irked that he went about it in such a roundabout way. Now you’ll have to play Twenty Questions again. “Are they an acquaintance too? Married?”

“He, yes, and no.”

“I see,” you hum, handing him the flour sifter, somewhat comforted by the fact that your charge isn’t involved in _too_ many marriage arrangements.

With the cream cheese mixture almost done, you take a baking sheet to set up the bain-marie in the heated oven.

“Nosy, aren’t ya?” Atsumu grins, dropping the last egg yolk into his darkening mixture.

You carefully grab the egg whites and the stand mixer’s bowl from the double-door fridge, careful not to drop or scratch the stainless steel bowl. Of course he’d have a thousand-dollar, professional mixer that he can’t even use.

“Figured I should get to know more about these things, you know?” you grin back, slotting the bowl into the stand and pouring in the egg whites. “If I’m going to be your manager.”

“You sure you aren’t here for gossip?”

“I’ve got an NDA.”

You press the start button to whip up the egg whites.

There’s a line between work and private life, and you trust your professionalism to at least be able to make a distinction between the two even without a legally binding contract. This kind of personal information — public knowledge or not — probably shouldn’t go back to your gossip sessions with Yukie. Even if she’s your best friend.

“What ‘bout you?” He glances at you before dropping the little bit of lemon juice and zest as the finishing touch to his amalgamation of cream cheese, butter, and egg yolk.

“Huh?”

“It’s your turn,” he pouts. Atsumu pushes the finished mixture in front of you, sitting back on his chair. “You in any relationships — acquaintances or otherwise — with anyone — men, women, non-binaires or otherwise?”

“No,” you simply reply.

The egg whites are fluffing up, and you have him pass you the sugar, adding in one-third at a time.

“Don’t have one or don’t want one?” he probes, a curious edge lacing his tone.

“Don’t have one.”

Another third of the sugar goes in.

“Oh ho.” Atsumu’s positively grinning now, elbow perched on top of the counter as he watches your lips fall into a line as flat as Kouyou’s buzz cut. “You want me to introduce you to some people? They’re not me, but they’re not half-bad.”

“No, thanks.” You briefly glance up at him, twisting your face into a barely passable expression before punching up the speed on the mixer.

All there’s left to do is to glare at the egg whites until it hits medium peaks.

“Hmm.” Atsumu looks at you curiously as you fix your eyes on the shiny stand mixer. He peers over the mixing bowl with the faintest interest.

He continues examining the bowl this way and that, finger outstretched to press one of the buttons before you quickly slap this hand away, directing your glare to him. With a grin, he snaps his attention back to you and settles back into his metal-framed high stool as you mentally prepare yourself for the burden of Miya Atsumu’s boredom.

“Do you want one? A relationship?” he starts off, fingers drumming on the white marble countertop.

“I’m not in a rush,” you sigh, leaning forward against the counter as you glance at the egg whites. They’re puffing up nicely.

“So you’re lookin’ for The One.” There’s a genuinely interested inflection to his tone.

“Kind of?” you frown, brows furrowing as you propose yourself this question. “Not really. Just someone I’m good with.”

“What’re your requirements?” 

The egg whites are now clinging to their shape, and Atsumu watches you turn off the stand mixer.

“Honestly? I haven’t really thought about it.” You take the bowl off the stand. “Probably just someone that’ll make me happy.”

Atsumu turns to you fully, eyes tracing your movements as you reach for the cream cheese mixture from his end. He props his elbows back on the marble countertop, a suddenly quiet expression on his face.

At his lack of follow up, you look up, a questioning arch to your brows. After a moment of him looking at you but not quite _looking_ at you, he finally breaks out into a slow grin.

“Makes you happy, huh?” His words don’t hold their usual edge. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

You give a small hum in acknowledgement. One-third of the fluffed egg whites goes into the mixture.

“Think you’ll find it? Someone who’ll make you happy?”

“Yeah,” you reply easily, gently folding in the two coloured mixes.

Atsumu’s eyes widen at your simple answer.

“Good fuckin’ luck with that.” He shakes his head with a snort of disbelief. “If you do, lemme know so I can send you a set of heirloom china or some shit.”

You laugh. He holds the bowl for you as you get more egg whites. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you suppose that it’s quite thoughtful of him to do so.

“Sure, Miya-san.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. You fold in the next third into the mix, flashing him a quick glance. “You too, then.”

“‘Me too’ what?”

“When you find that someone that makes you happy, you gotta tell me too so I can send you a cheaper set of heirloom china or some shit.”

“Not happenin’.”

“Which part?”

“The sunshine and rainbow part,” he rolls his eyes, watching your hand even out the batter’s colours. “Don’t want stupid china either. Fuckin’ weddings.”

“You never know, Miya-san,” you laugh, adding the lighted cream cheese mixture into the remaining egg whites as he holds the bowl for you. “You scared?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then tell me.”

He glares at you as you tap off the remaining batter on the whisk. The small smile plays at your lips as you hold out the utensil to him, grin widening as he grabs it with a snarl.

“God, woman, you’re so fuckin’ annoying.”

Your smile only gets even more pleasant, turning into one that’s really starting to grate on his nerves. But he supposed it’s been better than your predecessors’ less than professional sycophancy.

You continue grinning at him as he almost slams the parchment-lined cake pan in front of you. With a hum, you pour in the cake batter into the pan, tapping the pan onto the marble a few times to get rid of any air bubbles.

As you open the preheated oven, slipping the uncooked cake onto the baking sheet, you hear the small squeak of a kitchen stool moving.

Atsumu comes around the corner to stoop next to you, watching as the cake disappears behind the glass oven doors.

You reduce the heat, and with a satisfied huff, you start the timer.

“Now we wait,” you beam, quite positive that this cake will turn out pretty alright.

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll let you know when you spend a month’s worth of salary on some stupid china,” he mutters. “They better be worth keepin’,” he adds with a small glare.

He’s actually been seriously considering this the entire time. For some reason, it’s endearing him to you.

“Sure.” With a shake of your head, you laugh as he pouts at you. “It’s a promise then.”

Sticking your hand out, you look at him expectantly. He looks at you then at your hand with an exasperated roll of his eyes before giving your hand a quick shake.

“I swear, you’re so—”

Your stomach growls.

Atsumu blinks, and you blink back.

There’s a moment of silence in which his face doesn’t quite know what kind of expression to make next and you start to feel the immediate wave of embarrassment crawl all over your neck as you wait for one of you to address what just happened.

Atsumu bursts out in hysterics as your face scrunches up in mortification.

With a heated face, you hastily point an accusatory finger at him. “I was going to make brunner, but then you called, and was like ‘Help me, Miss Manager! It’s an emergency!’” Your voice drops to mimic his low, pleading tone. “So I had to rush here, and I didn’t even get to eat today,” you end with a groan, wanting to hide your face in your hands as he just continues laughing at you.

Atsumu finally comes down from his fit of laughter, and looks at you questioningly.

“The fuck’s a brunner?”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” you mumble, a new wave of shame creeping upon you.

“You woke up that late?” he smirks.

“Uh, yeah,” you frown, “I got home at like one.”

“Rush hour?”

Your face drops.

“What the fuck, Miya?”

“I let you go at like twelve.”

“Yeah, and I missed the usual train — yes, I took the train,” you almost snap as he opens his mouth, “and I had to walk an extra forty-five minutes for the other route.”

“Ah.” His mouth forms a small “o” as his eyes widen. “Well, next time, just take the taxi. I’ll let Kita know.”

Taken aback, you nod hesitantly. “Thanks, Miya.”

“You’re fine. It’s better than you being all ‘Miya-san’ this and ‘I’ll work hard’ that.” With a quick flash of smile at you, the smirk returns. “So you got home at one? It’s not that late.”

With a sigh, you can only marvel at how out of touch this man is. You don’t want to unload onto your boss about how unexpectedly exhausting your first day was yesterday night, no matter how strangely open and abnormal this whole model management experience has been so far.

“It’s not _late_ late,” you mutter, “but then Kita-san called, and he wanted a detailed report.”

“Ah, he does that,” Atsumu nods with a shrug and a what-can-you-do kind of grin. “He’s got one of the weirdest and strictest sleep schedules. I swear that man’s a robot.”

“Yeah, so I ended up going to bed way past three.”

“I thought you college kids’re used to these schedules.”

“Miya,” you frown, “I’m basically graduated by now.”

“You’re just weak then,” he snorts. “I got up at seven-thirty and went for a workout.”

“How?” you gape at him. “Aren’t you like thirty-something years old?”

“Uh, that’s some serious roundin’ up there,” he pouts at you playfully, lips jutting out and brows tapered in an upwards curve. “Hardly think that twenty-five is considered thirty-something now.”

You shrug, a little impressed by how many different expressions that this man can make attractive. “It’s still a little early to get up after seven hours of sleep on a day off.”

“It’s all habit, sweetheart,” Atsumu’s face lifts into a grin, and he flexes his arm a little. “Plus, it’s not a day off.” He sweeps a hand at the oven. “This is important work.”

“You count this as work?”

“Half and half.” He gives you a wink before opening up the fridge. “You want something to eat?”

Tonight’s impromptu Q&A has clearly finished, and you peer into the oven. There is still one and a half hour before the cake will be done baking, and it doesn’t seem like Atsumu’s going to let you go before you’ve got the cake decorated and wrapped up in the pretty pink box.

Giving a small sigh, you nod. “Thank you. I hope it’s not a bother.”

Atsumu pauses for a moment before resuming his examination of the container stacks in his fridge with an amused chuckle.

You cross your arms, padding to the other side of the island to sit down. With his back to you still, Atsumu takes out a few containers, setting them lidless into the microwave as he presses a few commands onto the display.

Swinging the door shut, he turns back to you with a big grin. “You’re my dear manager now,” he beams at you. “We gotta look out for each other.”

Miya Atsumu, age twenty-five, supermodel and indiscriminate philanderer. Accomplished since young; fourteen thousand dollar Miele steam oven when he can’t bake for shit. Fucks — literally and perhaps figuratively as well — with the movers and shakers of society; regularly ranks as most desirable bachelor in Japan.

Yesterday, you learned that he wields his words like a double edged sword.

But this early evening, you find that he’s honest. Brutally sincere.

And perhaps, you are warming up to this newness.

As you continue chatting over delicious and surprisingly homey curry rice and reheated miso soup, you find out more and more about his little quirks of how he likes to wave his chopsticks around while he eats, how he sometimes forgets to catch himself before speaking with his mouth full, how he sports the chipmunk cheeks and a pout when you ask about Naomi.

By the time the oven displays exactly eight-thirty, and the cake is all pretty and wrapped up in the pink box, Atsumu walks you to the door as you slip off those fluffy guest slippers.

“Well, I gotta freshen up a bit before deliverin’ this,” he grins at you, a little yawn escaping him before he can stifle it. “You good goin’ back at this time? No rush hour or missed trains?”

“Yeah,” you smile, waving a hand to dismiss his concerns, “I’ll be fine. What about you?” With a frown, you suddenly remember that he needs to go out into Tokyo alone. “Should I call Kouyou-san?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Atsumu leans against the doorframe as he watches you press the elevator’s button. “I do this a lot, and that man needs to rest for one day of the week at least.”

“And I don’t?” you frown jokingly.

“You’re indispensable,” he grins cheekily.

When you only return with an apprehensive look, he gives you a bigger smile.

“It’s really fine, Miss Manager,” he shakes his head with a small breathy laugh. “I’ll text you when I get there and get home.”

You know he’s joking but you only sigh. Defeated, you straighten up as the elevator doors slide open.

Stepping in, you turn to face him, smoothing your palms over your jeans. With a smile on your lips, you give him a little wave.

“Good night then, Miya.”

Atsumu chuckles before returning a small nod back.

“Yeah, you too, sweetheart.”


	6. Six

Turns out that Miya Atsumu hadn’t been joking when he said that he’d text you when he gets to his lover’s place and when he gets back home.

With how the texts were both sent within a half-hour time frame, he also hadn’t been lying that it’d be a quick drop off of the cake and bottle of rosé to Mrs. Souffle Cheesecake’s house.

He did say that she’d be away at a business meeting or something with her husband.

Not that you necessarily _need_ that much time to have a meaningful meeting with your lover.

But you’d rather not think so deeply about your little boss and his married acquaintance-lover.

As long as it’s all legal and consensual.

Though you have to admit, it was pretty nice to see the “i’m not dead yet!!”, “u proud i haven’t been kidnapped yet!!”, and finally, “hey, i’m home alr. u alive??” texts after getting out of the shower that night.

And it was pretty not nice when Yukie teasingly smirked at you as she watched a small grin tug at your lips as you looked at your phone.

“From the little boss?” she smiled innocently from her bed.

“He’s just making sure I’m alive,” you huffed back instantly, dropping your phone like a hot potato and returning to your serum. Hopefully, this little potent dropper would help ease the ungodly amount of sugar and oil that you’ve consumed earlier.

When you had returned home, Yukie had been waiting with a cake she’d baked at work, her face splitting into an even wider grin when she saw you with an armful of her favourite chips and snacks. A little beer and laughter later, you were well into your last cake and chips night, discussing Miya Atsumu’s impressively large and clean apartment and his unexpected graciousness in offering you dinner.

But the whole affairs thing that your model has going on went unreported.

Yukie would just have to accept the fact that you just _had_ to rush over to teach Miya Atsumu how to bake an innocuous cake in some kind of pseudo-emergency.

_“Why did he need a cake though?”_

_“No clue!”_

_“Why’s cake-making an emergency?”_

_“Oh, you know, just Miya Atsumu things!”_

_“Hmm,” she had narrowed her eyes at you. “Are you two close now?”_

_“Of course not!”_

Despite something so “domestic” — her words, not yours — you had assured yourself and Yukie that you and the supermodel had kept things strictly, entirely, and absolutely stone-cold professional.

You’re not warming up to him.

Not at all.

Neither you nor Yukie had believed your rationale.

But it’s true, you frowned, capping on your wintertime moisturizer.

“Oh darling,” your soon-to-be ex-roommate drawled out the term of affection with a teasing lilt. “I was just asking,” she smirks, turning back to her own device. “No need to get so defensive.”

You hurled a cushion at her before diving under your covers in the embarrassment of your reaction and her laughter.

“Good night, Yukie,” you mumbled, turning off your lamp.

“Good night, darling,” she chuckled softly. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you smiled before pulling up your phone.

One quick _“Good night, Miya.”_ later, you’re snuggled in with Bun in your cozy twin bed.

This was your last night in this 380 ft² apartment that you’d shared with Yukie for the better part of the past four years. By this time the next day, you’d already be relocated in a swanky post-college condo acquired in the most whirlwind of ways.

And currently, as you sit in said condo with a million boxes around you, you are grateful for the good night’s sleep yesterday.

Especially since your cousin is here helping you.

Pulling out so many hidden pieces of clothing that you have no recollection of buying.

“Cabbage, how do you even have this much stuff?” the fashion photographer wonders as he opens another cardboard box. “I thought you and Yukie ate both of your salaries away.”

At your frown, his laughter rings out, echoing into the wintry afternoon like a summer sky. It’s currently sometimes between three and four, and the two of you had spent the entire morning packing and the midnoon moving, which was made unnaturally easy by the five-tonne truck that your cousin had accidentally hired.

And after a Roppongi-priced late lunch that you didn’t want him to pay for — you tried to fight the bill, you really did — you two are now sitting unceremoniously on the sun-washed oakwood floor of your new living room, unpacking everything you had packed up this morning.

“Pretty sure half this shit is from you,” you snort, chucking a balled up sweater at him.

He grabs the sweater, holding it up. “My presents aren’t shit! They’re—” he gasps at the label. “—This is the Loro Piana sweater I gave you last winter!”

You hum in a vague confirmation as you continue unloading your winter clothing box.

“Uh, cabbage, why are the tags still here?”

“Shouyou, it’s a four hundred thousand _yen_ sweater,” you sigh, excavating more price-tagged sweaters, scarves, and other winter items. “I’ve been meaning to return these.”

“Why?” Hinata pouts. But then he considers something, and a slow grin slides over his lips. “Actually, you can’t return this one,” he announces triumphantly. “It’s not in their sales catalogue since I got it as a gift from a campaign.”

“Again?” you groan. You had unknowingly kept yet another exclusive fashion item in the back of your closet. And it’s not like you have the heart to put it up for sale either. “Shouyou, where would I even wear these things?”

“Uh, in life?” he smiles with a sheepish shrug. 

Another cashmere projectile flies his way.

“As I told Miya,” you start slowly, playfully glaring at your cousin, “I’m a broke.” You fling a knitted sock his way. “Exhausted.” There goes a toque. “College student.”

Hinata’s hand shoots up to catch the Fendi shearling earmuffs that you’ve slung a little too high.

“Well, not anymore!” he laughs from under the pile of wool and cashmere. “You're now an employed, exhausted manager to one of the best models out there.”

He sits up proudly, leaning over to fit the earmuffs over your head.

Your half-hearted glare softens, and he gives you two small pats on your head. You can’t help but smile along with his sunlit grin.

“I thought yours was the best,” you mumble, swatting his hand away gently as you collect the pile of winter items that you’ve chucked his way.

“He is!” A pause as Hinata reconsiders his outburst. “Well.” His grin slips into a frown. “Maybe not at the moment, but later, he’ll definitely be.”

With a smile again, he gives you a thumbs up as you laugh, folding up the Loro Piana sweater.

“You know, you’re taking this rather well.” Your tone is light, eyes glancing over to your cousin who’s taking out your collection of leisurely reading. “I thought you’d be against me taking this job and all.”

Hinata continues to neatly stack the books one atop another, lining them up against the glass coffee table. He’s not looking at you, but you can see the soft expression shadowed by the light.

“You know, cabbage, I _am_ against it.” His touch lingers on a well worn English literature novel. “But I’m also not.”

“So which is it?”

He gives you a half-smile as he lifts his head, irises light and deep all at once in the glare of the setting sun.

“Maybe it’ll work out,” he settles for, closing his eyes for a moment with a long exhale. He opens them again on a breezier note. “Good thing is that you get to work with me now!”

It’s not like you don’t notice how for someone who normally wears his hearts on his sleeves, that moment was unusually cryptic. But it’s also not the first day you’ve known him. Sometimes, the photographer has these moments where he’s deep in thought, and he doesn’t and sometimes can’t explain it to others, even if the other party is his little chayote who he adores to the sun and back.

In this specific case, he can’t share it with you precisely because you’re the baby cousin he would go against the world for.

Not that you know that.

“Well, we _are_ in the same circle again. Tōdai had been a little lonely without you,” you go along with his change of topic.

Of the people you respect and trust in your life, Hinata Shouyou is definitely near the top of the list. So to you, it doesn’t matter if he keeps his moments to himself.

You’d trust him in rain or shine.

“Really?” Hinata grins.

“Yes, really,” you sigh dramatically. “Yukie and I weren't getting fed since we didn’t have all that free food you’d bring back from your fancy events and fans.”

“The campus fans…” His face drops along with your last box of unidentifiable belongings. “I, yeah, I don’t miss them much.”

He momentarily falls into a state of abject horror, probably recalling the campus-wide manhunts and terribly unpleasant hide-and-seek sessions spent in the lockers of your café’s staff room.

A small chuckle escapes you at his deflated face as you also remember the multiple times where you had to turn away the mobs of fangirls that flooded your café.

You probably also have those daily exercises in mob control and mediation to thank for your current state of employment.

“Most of them weren’t yours anyways,” you smirk at the mental image of the two boys shoving themselves into those narrow lockers before adversely yelling at each other to shut the fuck up.

“That’s just ‘cause he’s tall!” the photographer argues as he hands you Bun from the box.

“‘Just ‘cause he’s tall, huh?’” you grin teasingly, smoothing over the fabric on Bun’s head before setting him down against a throw cushion on your cream-coloured couch. “Not because he’s a supermodel or anything right?”

When Hinata’s face lifts with a metaphorical Botox, you know that you’ve set yourself up for this one.

“I didn’t know you liked him, cabbage.” It’s his turn to do the teasing, and his grin says it all.

With a sigh, you finish stacking the last of the pricier winter clothing in three neat piles.

This isn’t the first time you’ve faced such teasing — it’s been three years and counting now — and each time you only tell him the truth: yes, you like his best friend but no, it’s not in the way that your cousin’s waggling eyebrows and smoochy lips would insinuate.

“He’s a nice guy, Shouyou,” you repeat what you say each time. “And no, don’t tell him I said anything about liking him.”

“Okay,” he shoots back just as easily. “You can tell him yourself.”

“I won’t be doing that,” you huff with a smile; this conversation is almost routine at this point. “How is he anyways?”

“He’s been kinda down lately,” Hinata shrugs, scooting up to the couch as you rest your head against the end of the L-shaped seating. “And before you say anything, I _am_ trying to help him.”

Your glare softens.

“But it’s been kinda really gloomy these days,” your cousin sighs, falling back onto the plush fabric as he grabs Bun. “Shoots are taking a lot longer than usual, and he’s just kinda in a slump.”

“A job slump or a life slump?”

“Both?”

“Huh.”

A frown settles onto your lips as you drum aimlessly onto the surface of the sofa, brows knitting together.

“But I trust him,” Hinata nods, patting Bun on the head reassuringly. “He’s the most annoyingly strong guy I know.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve seen him be down for too long.”

“You should come visit sometimes! He’ll be happy to see you!”

“Kageyama Tobio? Really?” you laugh. “I’m not his favourite brand of Hokkaido yoghurt.”

Through Hinata, you’ve become friends with the supermodel — which is a feat in and of itself — but to say that he’d be happy to see you would be an exaggeration. There’s no ill will; you were never more than Hinata Shouyou’s baby cousin. And you can’t even say with certainty that Kageyama would be _happy_ to see his photographer and partner.

The model has a distinct low smile count that carries over to his modelling brand, and he does it very successfully. No one does those cool and unaffected shots as well as Kageyama Tobio in this part of the world.

Getting up with a small stretch, you grab your phone.

No new messages from either of your bosses. There’s no affair-maintenance cakes to bake today then.

“Shouyou, do you want pizza or soba for dinner?”” you yawn, noticing that the last rays of winter’s sun are gradually slipping into Roppongi’s skyscrapers.

It’s an unclouded sky, and in the right corner of your floor-to-ceiling windows, you see the red, blue, and sunny golden hues concentrated at a vanishing point across the city, the shadows of the sun chased by the might of the inky black skies. The view is much more vast here with the low density of buildings, and you can’t help but shiver a little at the reality that you really are diving into the start of a new dawn.

“He will.”

“Huh?” Turning around, you see Hinata watching the sunset with you, his back leaned against the couch as he now sits upright.

“He’ll be happy to see you.”

He looks at you and the brightest and simplest of smiles blooms onto his face, one lit by the sun that is already slipping into the night, you think that maybe your cousin should’ve been a model instead, a model rumoured to have swallowed the midnight sun.

You shake your head with a laugh, “Shouyou, I thought we finished that part of the conversation.”

Your cousin blinks, and with a moment of realization, his smile falters as he returns your laugh sheepishly.

“Ah, right,” he grins, hopping off the couch. “Okay, dinner, right? There’s this really good Italian I’ve been dying to take you to.”

He pads over to you.

“Is it going to cost me an arm and leg?” Your forehead creases as he wraps his sturdy arms around your shoulders.

“Eh,” he pouts, “you’re not paying for this!”

“Shouyou!”

“I’ve gotta congratulate my baby cousin on her new job.”

“You better not pull something embarrassing like you did at my birthday,” you glare at him, already letting him pull you towards the foyer, “with the live band and everything.”

“I’ve got this.” His eyes twinkle with mirth, laughing at the memory of the entire band surprising you with a six-minute long rendition of the birthday song at the café. “Just let me spoil you a bit longer.”

As he holds out your coat for you and loops your scarf around you, you only sigh.

“Fine,” you huff, reaching out to adjust his crooked scarf. “But when I get my first paycheque, I’m treating you to the best goddamn meal you’ll have in your life.”

“As long as you’re happy, cabbage,” he grins, opening the door and ushering you out into the Roppongi night. “As long as you’re happy.”


	7. Seven

You’re pretty damn sure that you’d agreed to meet at his apartment this Monday morning before heading over to the shoot location together. So why on earth is Miya Atsumu grinning up at you from your couch thirty minutes before your agreed upon time?

“So,” you start, looking at him warily from behind the kitchen counter, “good morning, I guess.”

“Mornin’,” he beams back, looking all innocent as he takes a sip from the thermos of seventy degree, lemon-ginger water you’d prepared to bring _to_ him at _his_ apartment. 

“So,” you continue, taking a bite of your toast, “any reason why you’re here?”

“Silly Miss Manager,” he chuckles, “we’ve got a mornin’ shoot today!”

You’re about to chuck your jam-ladened toast across the living room.

“Miya,” you plaster on a canine smile, not even caring whether there’s residual condiment on all over your teeth or not, “we agreed to six am in front of _your_ apartment, not five-thirty in _mine_.”

“We did,” he returns your pleasantness in kind. “Just wanna make sure you didn’t get lost, ya’know?”

“You literally live in the building over,” you groan in exasperation. “I was just there this weekend.”

“Then to make sure you wake up on time,” he smiles even wider. “Want my dear manager to develop good habits, ya’know?”

It’s clear that Atsumu’s not leaving until Tachibana-san brings the nanny car around. You had been completely unprepared for this early morning ambush when he rang your doorbell fifteen minutes ago with his innocent grin and fakeass peppy voice. The asshole even laughed at your head to toe sweats before promptly barging in. At least Kouyou was considerate enough to stay outside.

__“It’d be rude to intrude,”_ the bodyguard sighed after your mutual boss had invited himself into your apartment. _

If only the model would be so courteous.

And now he’s sitting in your living room like it’s his own, dressed for comfort in his fancy sweatpants, cashmere hoodie, and long parka, all in black. The pink guest slippers are almost comically small on his sock-clad feet.

The bite of toast in your mouth turns into mush as you cautiously watch Atsumu get up to inspect every nook and cranny. There isn’t even much of anything to look at but the mere anxiety of someone looking at your things is preventing you from swallowing.

Especially when that someone is your supermodel boss. 

When you and Hinata had organized things yesterday, it finally struck you as to just how _large_ this entire place is compared to the small apartment dorm you had shared with Yukie. Before this, you’d never even had the opportunity to develop this realization but it’s surprisingly difficult to fill up a large space.

It’s still considerably smaller than Atsumu’s condo, but this is still an entire one bedroom apartment to yourself.

And when the nearly six-foot-two model nearly hits his head on a roller blind, you amuse yourself the thought of how comical giant he’d be should he visit your old apartment.

“Do you want to eat something?” you offer, swallowing the last of your toast and rolling up your sweater sleeves to rinse your dishes. 

There isn’t much time to return his favour of feeding you the other day; you still need to change out of your pyjamas and brush your teeth before you head out. But you figure if he had taken pity on your starving self even after your incessant haranguing, then you can make him a piece of thawed bread or something. You just hope that he’s okay with eating store bought bread. 

If he isn’t, then you wouldn’t want to be acquainted with him anyways. 

“Nah, can’t eat anything before the shoot,” he waves a hand back at you, preoccupied with the twilight city outside. “Did you do food prep?” 

You glance at the three-tiered bento sitting neatly on your kitchen counter. “Yeah, hopefully it tastes okay.”

The model requires a strict diet, one comprehensively detailed in a forty-paged laminated booklet. So after dinner with Hinata yesterday evening, you had laboriously cooked and assembled the pre-cooked components late into the night, and woke up at four this morning to finish the rest. 

There’s a selection of fresh fruits and veggies for in between shooting; a steam sweet potato, pan fried chicken breasts, and simmered _konnyaku_ and daikon for a late lunch; and a handful of nuts and an unsweetened green juice for after his interview. 

Dinner to be determined, but in the notes, Aran did write that Atsumu usually ate at home to manage nutrition intake. 

You scan your model’s silhouette from the back.

Atsumu’s tall, very tall and very broad. He’s also very fit, and has a busy schedule ahead.

“But, uh, Miya, the portions look kinda small for an entire day.”

Atsumu stops fiddling with the roller blinds, and turns around slowly, eyebrows raised. He follows your gaze to the bento, mouth quirking up when he sees you worry at your lip.

“Worried about me, sweetheart?” he grins, padding over. 

“Well, yeah,” you give him a halfhearted glare. “Your shooting schedule is really long today. And Aran even specifically wrote down no soy sauce, no added sugars, and not too much salt in your food. And you’re not even eating breakfast.”

Your lips purse when he laughs. 

“You do know that I’ve been doin’ this for a while, right?” Atsumu leans on the counter edge across, head tilted in amusement as he slides the empty thermos over to you. “Pretty sure we’ve been over this, Miss Manager.”

He rests his chin on his hand, a fraction of the hoodie’s white-lined sleeves peeking up from beneath the parka. With the way his unstyled hair looks so soft, even downier than Saturday’s, Atsumu looks younger in this quiet, evaporating darkness. 

But you don’t dare to dwell on this softness too much.

So you busy yourself with refilling his thermos with seventy degree water.

You sigh, sliding the bottle back to him. “I tried cooking things in a nicer _dashi_ stock, spiced them up with paprika, lemon juice, and stuff. So maybe it’ll taste a bit better.”

Blink and you’ll almost miss it, but Atsumu’s eyes widen just a little, flashing with a fragile light. He only huffs a little laugh before sporting a lopsided smirk again.

“That’s nice of you,” he purrs, capping up his thermos and shifting his attention to the small wall-mounted oven behind you. “But sweetheart, you’ve got three minutes before we leave. Unless you wanna show up in those baby blue sweats, I’d get a move on it if I were you.”

Whipping your head around, you stare at the clock that’s currently displaying a five fifty-seven.  


The horror that dawns on your face triggers Atsumu’s abrupt cackling.

“I, shit,” you groan, eyes widening at the fact that the sun was also dawning into your apartment and not just Atsumu’s eyes. “I should probably go change.”

Your eyes meet Atsumu’s for a second, and as if in some sleazy, slow-mo romcom movie, the man fucking winks at you, hair lit by the daybreak filtering into the apartment and a slow, full smirk on his lips.

But you can’t even begin to react properly before you make a break for your bedroom.

You’ve got a job to do, for God’s sake. 

“Stay there!” you half grunt half shout at him, nearly crashing into the door.

Barely discernible amidst his uncontrollable laughter, your boss calls out. “Wear more layers, sweetheart!” 

“Shit, okay!” you yell back. 

Even in your haste, you try closing the door as gently as possible to save face, which only means that you essentially slam the bedroom door shut as his laughter echoes through the apartment like a memory of elephants starting a brass band.

At six o’ one, when Atsumu comes out of the apartment door with you in tow, you looking simultaneously flustered and like you want to strangle your boss, Kouyou gives a quiet snort of amusement before ushering the two of you down to the carpark.

˚｡⋆.˚｡⋆.˚｡⋆.

You end up at Hakone.

What the fuck.

“I told you to wear more layers,” Atsumu frowns at your shivering form. 

“I didn’t know we were going to end up in the mountains.” Your teeth are clattering together uncontrollably, and you’re not sure if he understands you with your stuttering syllables. 

You look at the snowy landscape in complete bewilderment. How on earth did ninety minutes of organizing Atsumu’s emails and familiarizing yourself with his social media accounts turn into an inter-regional trip?

No wonder Atsumu raised an eyebrow at your thin jacket, jeans, and plain white sneakers when you came out of your bedroom. 

It’s currently seven-thirty. The sky is now lit in a clear, cloudless blue. And it’s a perfect zero degrees with the morning chill yet dispelled by the winter sun. 

“Miya,” you shiver, “w-why are we in Hakone?” 

“‘Cause I’m gonna outshine Mount Fucking Fuji,” Atsumu grins, sweeping his arm at the trailer. 

Mount Fuji is most likely somewhere behind there, along with Lake Ashi and the rest of the crew setting up the shoot, but right now, all you want to do is hop back into the nanny car with Tachibana. 

Or more preferably, get in the goddamn trailer that Atsumu is keeping you from. 

“Atsumu-san,” Kouyou sighs from inside the heated carriage, waving a hand at the two of you, “please get in here or we’ll have what should’ve been a preventable workplace injury from hypothermia.”

“But Kouyou-chan,” Atsumu’s voice drips molasses, “I wanna show my dear manager around.” 

He shoots you a dazzling beam to which you return a withering smile. With a small sigh, Kouyou looks like he’s about to come out and grab you himself but a voice from inside the trailer interrupts.

“Get in here, you jerkface.”

It’s a quiet command, but the threat is there. At the completely dull and demanding tone, you glance at Atsumu, who’s mocking grin has turned even wider. He gives you one more smirk, and bounds into the trailer with an almost skip in his steps.

You might’ve thought that you were hallucinating things if it weren’t for the fact that Kouyou finally lets out a breath and waves you in.

“Come on, Miss,” he smiles empathetically, “you get to meet another one of them.”

You nod with a crooked smile, smoothing your hands over your jeans before lugging your bag of bento box and thermoses into the trailer.

Kouyou quietly closes the door behind you, keeping watch outside. 

The trailer is not too big, but the most important thing is that it’s heated. Seeing how Atsumu is comfily slouched in the makeup chair, parka gone and sipping on his second thermos of the day — which is just ginger, you almost want to file an occupational safety and health complaint.

“So you’re the new manager.” 

A man even taller than your model brushes past you, stopping beside Atsumu. He’s turned away from you, but you reckon that if he straightens up a little, he’d be even taller and more imposing. 

“Uh, yeah, I am,” you hastily confirm, and introduce yourself.

When he turns to you, eyes looking down in a flat stare, you hesitatingly stick your hand out as you look up at him, already feeling an increasingly familiar neck strain. 

Kita seems to have gathered much of Tokyo’s tall and beautiful people under his employment. At the very least, this man in front of you doesn’t seem to speak in _kansaiben_. That would make for a very curious hiring requirement. 

“Suna Rintarou,” he replies, expression deadpan and voice unaccented, but you see the slightest glint in his narrow eyes as he shakes your hand casually. “I make his face socially acceptable.”

“Oh, uh,” you fumble, unsure of whether it’s professionally acceptable to insert a few polite chuckles like this in front of a new coworker. Eventually, after much too long, you settle for a “it’s nice to meet you” as Suna looks at you in the mildest amusement.

Atsumu scoffs from the chair, muttering a small “every damn time.”

Suna shrugs, and turns back to the model. 

He resumes his routine, reaching for a bottle on the counter. 

“Atsumu likes you,” he comments offhandedly as he sprays a few pumps of water onto Atsumu’s face.

Uh, what?

“What the fuck?” the model jerks up in his chair, eyes flying open and nearly spilling the content of his thermos onto Suna’s arm. 

The look of disappointment that he _didn’t_ is evident in his scowl. 

“You said she’s interesting,” the makeup artist explains blandly, spraying him a few more times. 

“Your new job’ll be interesting,” Atsumu snarls as he wipes his mouth of the excess droplets trickling down his neck. “She’s annoying as fuck.”

“That’s nice,” comes the disinterested reply. 

Suna doesn’t believe a single word Atsumu had said.  


Bag still in hand, you shift on your feet as you watch the exchange warily. 

They were talking about you, but you’re also aware enough to know that Suna’s probably just trying to rile his boss up.

You smartly refrain from your two cents of input regarding your new coworker’s observations. You even hold your tongue on your boss’s less than cordial comment, and merely file it into your growing collection of “Just Miya Atsumu Things.”

Suna to his credit does stop talking, but Atsumu narrows his eyes at the other’s upturned lips. Returning the glare with an innocent, absolutely flat grin of his own, the makeup artist takes a cotton pad and saturates it with another bottle of liquid, beginning work on cleansing the model’s face. 

The minutes tick by, and you continue to stand there, tapping away at your phone as you start deleting the private messages on his Instagram. 

When Suna finishes patting the SPF onto his skin, Atsumu opens his eyes and glances at you.

“Oi, what’re you still standin’ up for?” he frowns, eyeing your rigid stance and heavy bag of provisions. “Put ’em on the couch or something and come sit down.”

“Oh, uh,” you blink, looking up from your phone, and nod, “right.” 

Hastily relieving the weight onto the small two-seater, you follow Atsumu’s gaze and take your place on the small stool beside his makeup table.

With a small smirk, Atsumu leans back into the chair again and closes his eyes, allowing Suna to start with the base. 

You observe them a little, still trying to gauge the dynamics going on here. 

Casual concentration on Suna’s face, his smooth and practiced hand movements speak for his skills. The more he relaxes, shoulders slouching even further as the seconds tick by, the more his attitude screams hours of practice and familiarity. And you note with interest that Atsumu has yet to make a single quip so far. In fact, he’s completely relaxed in the process, a day and night difference from the Ginza photoshoot. 

In the five days that you’ve known him, you’re beginning to realize that for such a public figure, Miya Atsumu is a very private person. He only trusts his own.

To think that you had been so brave to issue and accept a challenge without thinking things through.

But you also haven’t been fired yet; he doesn’t seem too offended by your current dynamics. In fact, he seems rather entertained. With a nod to yourself, you’ve made up your mind.

You’re going to become this wild fox’s handler.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Suna files your expression away for a later day.

“So, this is for…” you clear your throat, sitting up from your stool and squinting at the schedule on your phone, “Patek Philippe?”

“Yeah, watchmakers.” Atsumu winces as Suna smacks him for turning to look at you. “You know ’em?”

“Only because Shouyou hasn’t stopped talking about this one amazing piece of theirs,” you shrug. “I thought you’d be more of a, uh, I don’t know, maybe like Cartier? They’re really famous, aren’t they?”

“‘Cause he’s like a lil' stuck-up, right?” Suna chimes in, grabbing a few brushes and a palette. 

“Well, I mean,” you test out the waters with a playful shrug, “I’m not one for fashion, Suna-san.”

“I am.” His eyes are sly as his lips lift into a small grin. “And I’m right.”

“I’m literally right here, asshole,” Atsumu rolls his eyes, throwing his makeup artist another glare but there’s no real bite to it. 

“Fascinating,” Suna retorts breezily, directing the model to close his eyes as he continues with the eyeshadow.

Your head tilts a little, beginning to understand their dynamics. “So why aren’t you at Cartier?” 

Some ad of a dark-haired person modelling for Cartier has been showing up on your Instagram feed these past few days as you familiarize yourself with brands and the market.

Suna snorts at your persistence. 

“It’s only ‘cause,” Atsumu grins tightlippedly, opening his eyes again and staring straight up, “someone else’s got it at the moment.”

“They should be pretty good then, right?” you wonder, trying to recall the ad. 

With a slow smile, Suna answers in Atsumu’s stead, “Oh, he’s very good,” and with a deliberate smirk right down at the model, “I miss his face quite a bit.”

Atsumu scoffs, and you blink at the dangerous glare that he directs back at Suna.

Well, they’re definitely friends. Anything less than that would not have gotten away with whatever the makeup artist’s wisecracks had insinuated.

The other man merely shrugs, taps Atsumu to close his eyes again, and continues his job.

After a moment of silence and hard pondering on Atsumu’s end, he waves a hand at you.

“Oi, Miss Manager,” he speaks up, lighter tone returning in an instant, “what’s it like havin’ Hinata Shouyou as your cousin? So close to fame.”

Suna glances at you curiously.

“Hinata Shouyou’s your cousin?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t think I can claim proximity to fame with either of you here,” you laugh a little, happy for the change of pace. “Shouyou’s really sweet though, always looking out for me. But he spends way too much on things I won’t wear,” you frown, remembering the stacks of branded clothing still waiting to be dealt with in the back of your closet. 

“Yeah, worked with him a few times,” Atsumu grins. “A pretty talented guy. His partner's not half bad.”

“Kageyama?” You perk up at the mention of yet another familiar person. “Yeah, he’s pretty nice.”

“Oh ho, Miss Manager,” the model eyes you slyly, a teasing smile on the edges of his lips.

Even Suna’s stopped to look at you. 

“What?”

“Is that a little something I hear?”

“What are you talking about?” You roll your eyes. “We went to school together.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is that he’s ‘just a friend?’” he smirks. 

“Yes, Miya-san,” you smile pleasantly.

“Woah, okay, got it,” the model gasps, hand clutching his heart dramatically. “No need to go back to suffixes,” he pouts.  


Suna snorts, returning to Atsumu’s face, moving away from the eyes.

Ignoring him, you frown looking down at your phone. It’s almost time for the shoot. 

“Say, does Shouyou-kun only buy you monograms?”

Your frown breaks into a light chuckle. “No, but I definitely know what you’re talking about.”  


Hinata’s fashion sense can only be described as cheerfully extravagant, and he’s not even doing it to show off. He just genuinely likes those Louis Vuitton and Gucci prints.

“He gives me the less, uh, alarming pieces,” you grin.

“Then you should wear’em, Miss Manager,” the model quirks an eyebrow in amusement.

“Miya,” you laugh, “are you worried you might be seen with me like this?”

Atsumu blinks. “No? Why would I?” He sounds genuinely curious. “It’s only embarrassin’ if you come in like a circus.”

“Oh.”

“It’s your job,” he continues with a shrug, “and you’ve been alright with respectin’ it so far. Just thought you should wear’em ‘cause if you’ve got better clothes, don’t you wanna look better?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“So I expect you to be in head to toe Chanel tomorrow,” he huffs with a satisfied nod that turns into a small frown. “Actually, no, don’t do that. Chanel is that succubus’s brand.” 

“Wear Burberry,” Suna finally joins in, hand still reflexively brushing out Atsumu’s brows. 

“Why?”

Atsumu’s mouth forms a small “o” before breaking into a large grin. “Yeah, Burberry’s good.”

“Why?” you repeat more firmly this time, arms crossed and eyeing the two of them carefully.

They share a smirk before Atsumu looks at you.

“It’s your boyfriend’s brand.”

“I don’t have a—” These assholes. “Miya-san, goodbye.”

You smile your politest and frostiest smile, standing up to turn and leave. 

“Oi, I wasn’t the one— Hey, watch—”

You hit a wall.

Or you don’t because a pair of arms comes out to steady you around the shoulders.

“Oof, okay,” a deep _kansaiben_ rumbles. “Gotcha.”

You look up to another six-foot something.

“You alright?” The top of the six-foot something looks down curiously. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You think your eyes are a bit blurry.

You blink.   


“Miya...san?”

But Miya-san is behind you.

“Hey ‘Samu, you almost killed my lil' manager there.”

“From how she’s ‘bout to walk out on you, seems like you almost did too,” the Miya carbon copy in front of you snorts, releasing his hold on you and walking over to the other side of the chair. “'Sup, Suna.”

“Hey.”

You stand there, confused for a moment before it dawns on you. The urge to smack your head against the trailer strikes you as you remember.

Miya Atsumu is an identical twin. 

And his twin is a photographer. 

“Miss Manager,” Atsumu drawls, “c’mere.”

You turn around.

“This is the lesser Miya,” he grins proudly, pointing to his dark-haired twin. “‘Samu, I bet you’re so jealous right now.”

“I told you he likes you,” Suna mutters to you.

“Shut it, Suna,” Atsumu shoots back instantly, the pleasant expression unfaltering as he continues beaming between you and his brother. 

Osamu stays silent through the whole banter, observing you for a moment before a small smile finally dawns on his face. 

“Osamu,” he nods politely, reaching out a hand right in front of Atsumu’s face. “Sorry for your troubles.”

A bark of laughter escapes Suna, and you can see Atsumu bristling, smile dropping at his brother’s jab. 

“The pleasure’s all mine?” you chuckle, not without hesitation at your boss’s glare that’s right there.

Hand taking Osamu’s warm grip, you’re careful not to bump into Suna’s hard work. 

The photographer lets go of your hand with a small grin, face mellow before he turns to Suna. 

“Almost done?”

“Yeah,” comes the lazy drawl as he works on the powder. “Just about.”

“Great, okay,” Osamu nods, giving Atsumu a pat on the shoulder before turning to you. “I’ll see you all outside then.”

You return his nod as he walks by you, heading back out. 

“Well,” Suna sighs, capping the setting spray, “you’ve met the crew then.” 

“Yeah,” you echo his sigh. “You’re all really tall.”

The model chuckles as he stands up from his chair, stretching out. “Kita’s got a good eye for things.”

“Suna-san is,” you look at him in confusion, “not a model though?”

Atsumu shakes his head with a wagging finger. “Only ‘cause he didn’t want to be one.” 

Over his shoulder, Suna gives a slow nod of confirmation as he sips on his water. 

“Well, then, I’m gonna get changed,” the model perks up. “You’re welcomed to stay, Miss Manager.”

“Uh.”

You stand there like a deer caught in headlights.

Suna considers you for a moment, and you alternate between looking at Atsumu and his makeup artist. 

“You don’t have to,” the latter finally says. “But you should probably get used to it.”

“Ah, right,” you swallow, hands smoothing over your jeans. “I’ll skip out this time if it’s okay with you, Miya,” you look at him with an apologetic half-smile, mentally chiding yourself for being so unprepared. 

Atsumu returns your stare with a few slow blinks, a big smile spreading over his face. 

“Suna’s right,” he grins. “I _do_ like you.”

Heat fires up on your face.

“Do what you want, Miss Manager,” he laughs, reaching for the bottom edge of his sweater. “Just tell the stylist to come in.”

“Okay,” you squeak out, hastily heading to the door to escape the rising warmth of the trailer. “Bye!”

You rush out of the trailer filled with low chuckles.

Kouyou looks surprised but also not really when he sees you flustered and without Atsumu in tow. 

“Need me to take care of him, Miss?” he asks you in all seriousness.

“No, I’m good, Kouyou-san,” you sigh with a small laugh, making your way down the steps. “Just Miya Atsumu things.”


	8. Eight

This is ridiculous.

“That’s it?” you gape, watching the three of them thank the staff and get ready to leave. “We’re done?”

“Impressed?” the model smirks, taking back his parka.

“Uh, yeah?”

In under two hours and after three outfit changes later, you’re about to head back to the carpark, first shoot done for today.

No visible casualties; everyone is leaving happy.

You gape at the twins in front of you. Beside you, Suna snorts in unamusement.

“Manager?” he shakes his head, hands digging deeper into his pockets. “Kita didn’t hire you to inflate his ego?”

“Right?” Osamu chimes in, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you chop ‘n mince it into hamburg steaks instead?”

Atsumu aims for the identical head.

You’re just hoping that they get bored of imitating your voice inflection soon.

Off set, the trio communicate almost exclusively through verbal subtweets and straight up libel. But in the past few hours, you’ve seen how they worked together seamlessly, like the violently smooth chucking, throwing, and splattering of paint that melts into a Jackson Pollock.

It was ridiculously beautiful.

Throughout the entire thing, Osamu said miraculously nothing to his brother. He only opened his mouth to bark orders at his staff when they weren’t quick enough to keep up with the flurry of snapshots and his brother’s angles.

The photographer from the Ginza shoot had given instructions on posing, angles, and placements, and Atsumu had easily fulfilled all the requirements. It had been a fine collaboration.

Today however, this was the muse and his artist. Where Atsumu went, Osamu followed. Both drew, both drawn.

Camera between them, it almost felt like they pushed everyone out of their perfected world.

Maybe except for Suna.

His slightly, inextricably overlapped with the twins’ in a Venn diagram made up of the most uneven of spheroid shapes.

With each new outfit change, the makeup artist retouched a maximum of once or twice, always efficient and only as necessary. There were some liberal jabs made here and there at Atsumu’s expense, but that was their dynamics, and they all knew how to shut up and change channels.

In these short few days, you’ve learned that adaptability is important in this trade. And Miya Atsumu is an extremely versatile man capable of changing faces to meet the demands of a three-piece suit and long overcoat, a silk wool jacket with a linen shirt, and the circumstantial elements of the photoshoot’s set.

When it came to the final outfit of a simple sweater, trousers, and a seventy thousand dollar watch, Atsumu, in a stroke of genius and much to the annoyance of the stylist, walked into the freezing lake.

Osamu wordlessly followed, snapping at his reluctant assistants to go deeper into the lake to splash water blooms at the model. The poor staff were chattering as they swatted water at the model, but Atsumu only held onto his grace.

It was something else.

Too many people sighed around you, and even Suna proudly scoffed at the pure smile aglow with sunlit innocence and alpine abandon.

Atsumu didn’t outshine Mount Fucking Fuji, because Mount Fuji is a fucking mountain, but no one’s going to complain about the performance he gave.

It’s not everyday that snow fell straight into summer.

And in the face of the winter sun, the cozy parka you wore became scorching.

It was already much too warm to begin with.

Throughout the shoot, you had felt the temperature increase exponentially in the goose-down satellite sun.

When Atsumu, once again, chucked the parka at you before shooting, you frantically caught it like the budding professional that you are, balancing his thermos and bento in hand.

But instead of walking away, the model stopped to consider you for a moment.

You stared back, tight smile and arms full, before he huffed and turned to leave for the shoot.

Not two steps later, he whipped back to look at you with the most constipated frown on his face.

He just stared at you, and when it passed the ten second mark, you turned to Suna who only offered you a noncommittal shrug.

“Try throwing him some food.”

Atsumu snarled at that.

Before you could suggest anything, Atsumu stormed up to you, yanked the parka from your arms, and promptly threw it at you _again_.

But this time, he quickly coiled it around your frame, spitefully tight, tucking your arms, thermos, and bento right into the thick jacket. Confused and alarmed, you stood there frozen, watching with increasing bafflement at how his frown unfurled with each click of the zipper until it reached the tippy top.

A satisfied nod, Atsumu shot you a quick lopsided grin before turning on his heel and dashing away without a single word.

_What the fuck._

On the sidelines, there was a general consensus among the crew that it was a very gentlemanly and suave gesture from the model and that anyone would kill to be in your spot.

According to Suna, it was “lame as fuck.”

Osamu turned back to his shoot.

And you’re frozen on the spot.

_This was still Just Miya Atsumu Things, right?_

For a long moment there and in the warming chill, you wondered if your case could be considered a workplace casualty.

And you continued wondering when you handed him the thermos after the shoot...and as you took his social media photos...and as you started heading back up the path to the parking lot, leaving the rest of the staff to clean up as you rush back to make the second photoshoot of the day.

Walking a safe distance behind, Kouyou is still looking at you worriedly.

You think you’re less dazed after the round of teasing from the boys, but as you head back to the parking lot, you start to hear what appears to be monkeys? Screaming?

By the frequency and volume, there seems to be a lot of them?

You turn to Suna in confusion. “Why are there—?”

“Fans,” Suna sighs, pulling his scarf higher on his face. “You totally thought they’re monkeys, didn’t you?” he eyes you in amusement.

“Yes? No?” you frown, completely aware of the twins snickering in front of you. “Miya’s fans?”

“Yeah, mainly Osamu’s,” he grins.

“Hey!” Atsumu turns around with a glare. “I’m the model here.”

“Tragic,” the make up artist snorts, rolling his eyes as he looks at you again. “The twins have posses that stalk them. If you don’t want to end up on some enamoured tween’s hate Twitter, wrap up.”

The screaming gets louder — how do they even know the twins are arriving? — and your face drains of colour as you nervously pat around your shoulders for an obvious lack of a scarf or anything to cover yourself with.

Suna shrugs, and continues walking.

He had already turned away from a modelling contract; he wasn’t about to sacrifice his own sanity for your lack of preparation.

You’re on your own.

The twins are further down the path looking like two towering, dark Michelin Man’s.

There’s only one way.

“Say, Miya.”

Both of them turn around.

“Uh, the blond one.”

“Would it kill you to say my name?” Atsumu snaps.

“It might, Miya,” his twin shrugs beside him. “But Miss Manager, if you’re gonna call him Miya, then you can’t call me Miya.”

You stop in your step. “You’re right,” you hum, momentarily considering the dilemma at hand before a slow grin surfaces. “‘Osamu’ works.”

There was a shout bark of impatience that didn’t belong to the ones up the path, but if looks could kill, Atsumu’s glare at you certainly would have no destructive power whatsoever because you’re too busy shyly bumping fists with the other two to notice.

You all jolt at another round of proper, high pitched screeching.

Their Miya senses are probably tingling.

“Say, boss,” you try again sweetly. It won’t do you any good to further rile up someone you want to ask a favour from.

Atsumu grunts a little less grumpily at this new title. “What d’you want?”

“Uh,” you grin crookedly, “mind lending me your parka again?”

He pauses. The other two also stop, and no one says anything. You think Kouyou has also stopped from ten metres behind.

You blink back at the three in expectation.

“What?” you laugh. “I was thinking I can, like, hide in it or something?”

“You’re totally nuts,” Suna finally mutters, shaking his head as he passes the group to continue down the path. “I wondered why Kita hired you.”

“All yours,” Osamu grins, giving his twin a pat on the shoulder before catching up with Suna.

You’re left with Atsumu.

He stands there looking at you, and you only stare back, bewildered.

The audacity of them to call _you_ nuts. There has got to be irony in that.

The model raises an eyebrow at your non-comprehension.

You raise an eyebrow back.

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t think you’re actually that dense but try usin’ that college brain of yours.”

You glare at him indignantly. “I asked you for your parka!”

“Sweetheart.” His chuckles rumble out in disbelief. “Think with me for a sec, yeah?” You nod suspiciously. “You’re gonna walk up in my parka thinkin’ they can’t see you ‘cause of how big it is, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what’re they gonna do when they see you in my parka?” he prompts, enunciating each word as if he’s speaking to a kindergartener.

“They won’t know it’s yours?” you frown.

Atsumu almost laughs at how he needs to have this conversation with you. Kita really does find the most intriguing of characters.

With a smirk, he reaches out an arm, hovering this hand over your head before moving his makeshift height measurer straight to his chest.

You come up to his shoulders, barely.

“Sweetheart,” he actually laughs this time, full bodied laughter and shaking shoulders as he sees your brows knit together.

The realization of how short you come up to him dawns on you. But that might not exactly be what he’s going for here.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you mutter, heat blooming across your face for more reasons than one.

“Really?”

“Uh.”

“ _Sweetheart_ , they’ll start a witch hunt.” He points a finger at you. “For you.” You frown. “At that point, it ain’t gonna matter if you quit or not ‘cause you won’t be doin’ your job.” You blanch. “Ever think ‘bout that, Miss College Graduate?”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.”

“Hurry up, you two!” Osamu calls from the end of the path. “With this crowd, don’t blame it on me when you’re late for your shoot!”

“Go on,” the model laughs again as he waves you off to Osamu’s direction. “Keep your head down ‘n stick with Suna.” His amusement is evident in his teasing drawl.

“Uh, sure, okay,” you hesitate, looking behind him at Kouyou.

Kouyou gives you a nod, and you don’t need to be told thrice.

Quickly turning around, you make a break out of there, away from the sun.

˚。⋆.˚。⋆.˚。⋆.

Mosquitoes are generally dehydrated with prolonged exposure to the sun and the amount of energy they expend to make those telltale buzzing noises, but the Miya twins’ fans aren’t mosquitoes, and they probably keep diligent hydration routines with how much screaming, running, and stalking they do.

So it’s an infinite relief that even as a one man team, Kouyou does his job extremely well, and that Tachibana, Atsumu’s grey haired driver, has a talent for losing homing missiles. By the time of the last interview, your group was mostly free from the hoard that had ambushed you at Hakone and left the twins panting from almost ending up at the bottom of a human dogpile.

You also made it out in one piece, blessed by the fortuitous kindness of Suna Rintarou. Or perhaps he just didn’t want another source of hassle.

The day ended in success, and Atsumu’s now back home getting ready for a private _engagement_. And you’re back on an uncomfortable leather armchair, a deformed horse sitting on his pedestal beside you. 

“How’re the shoots today?”

“Good, everything was normal,” you smile, the palms of your hands plastered to your jeans.

“And the interview?” Kita hums, shutting down his desktop Mac as he sits back in his tall leather chair.

How he looks so perfectly comfortable in his grey suit after a whole day of work is a mystery to you.

“Professional,” you summarize, thinking back at how Atsumu was teasing you one minute and charming the tomato red interviewer the next. “He’s really good at this modelling thing.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Kita laughs. “How’d you like ‘em?”

“They’re,” you pause, struggling to not blurt out ‘weird as fuck’, so you settle for a simple, noncommittal, “nice.”

He looks at you in sceptical amusement as you chuckle awkwardly.

“They’re nice boys,” he smiles with reassurance. “Just a handful sometimes.”

“Yeah, a bit,” you share his grin. “I’m surprised that they aren’t models.”

“Osamu did a little modellin’, and I tried to get Suna to,” he muses, “but they’re both good at what they do now.”

“That’s true,” you nod. This much is already evident.

“It’s a good idea to get along with ‘em,” Kita gives you a small smile. “Okay, I’ve got a meetin’ in a few minutes so let’s quickly go over things for this Friday.”

You quickly grab your notebook, nodding politely in response at his statement. They don’t seem difficult to work with, especially when you all orbit around such a person as Miya Atsumu.

“There’s a gala, right?” you comment, opening up to Friday’s schedule. “Hosted by Fukurodani Corporation?”

Glancing up at your big boss, you see the crinkle in his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re gettin’ the hang of things,” Kita nods in approval. “You’re goin’.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re goin’. With Atsumu,” he smiles. “You’re his manager.”

You blink at the grey-haired man in front of you. Your jeans are starting to feel very damp.

“Kita-san,” you start in confusion, “this is a gala.”

“It’s part of your job,” he states, not unkindly but his tone leaves no room for discussion. “You make sure Atsumu socializes civilly and plays a good rep this time.”

And you as his personal assistant.

“Got it,” you hastily nod, readying your pen. “What about the dress code?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Miss L/n,” Kita smiles pleasantly. “That’s all sorted out for you.”

You quickly jot things down. “Just me and him?”

“No, I’m goin’ too,” a voice comes from behind. “And Suna.”

“Osamu,” Kita smiles, “perfect timin’.”

“Hey, boss. You called?” The photographer casually drops down into the couch next to yours, giving you a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Yes.” Kita grabs his phone. “Are you alright goin’ forward with the collaboration?”

“Yeah, sure,” Osamu shrugs, glancing at you looking between him and Kita. “Sounds pretty interestin’.”

“Good to hear.” There’s a twinkle in Kita’s eyes, and he turns to you. “For the gala, talk to Aran tomorrow. He’ll have everythin’ you need.”

“I understand,” you confirm.

“That’s it for tonight,” your boss states warmly. “Thank you for your work today.”

“Thank _you_ , Kita-san,” you bow back.

With a polite smile at him and Osamu, who gives you a curious grin in return, you stand up and head towards the door.

As you turn to gently close the door, Kita calls out to you one more time.

“Keep up the good work, Miss L/n.”

The door clicks shut at your “of course, Kita-san.”

Quickly making your way to the elevator, you almost fall back into the opposite wall after pressing the down button.

You’re slowly getting used to this place, but there is most definitely pressure built into the president’s office.

He was never the “less intimidating Miya”, but Osamu had been less imposing. But in that short meeting there, Osamu definitely looked very comfortable in the foxes’ den.

Beyond the sky-high windows, the honks of the rush hour traffic outside make their way up thirty-something floors. You shiver a little at the cool draft from the elevator rushing up. The skies are crystal clear tonight, and the temperatures have dropped significantly from this morning. While it’s not as cold as Hakone, you miss the parka’s warmth on your skin. It’s high visibility tonight, and if you turn around, you’d be able to see the moon shining faintly above Tokyo’s night.

With a long exhale, you step into the elevator to head back down.

The bar just got raised.


End file.
